"Oh the Journeys, Oh the Many Paths" - Personal Piece
I left dad in the living room as he took our family pictures down from the wall and boxed them up--there were simply too many memories passing my eyes that I had long locked away in the boxes of my mind. I had never felt a pain as strong as this. Even though I knew we had to leave I couldn't keep my mind away from the fact that this house carried the bulk of my memories of her and I would never be ready to leave.
I entered mom's bedroom and lied down on the bed. Dad hadn't slept there since her passing. I had slept there every night since. I glanced at the nightstand and let out a sigh of frustration; we only had a few days left to leave the premises so no matter how wrong it felt to go through her belongings it needed to be done. I rummaged through cooking magazines, hard candy, glucometer strips, and the small pistol mom always kept by her bed (never loaded).
Finally, I came across a small journal. As I flipped through the pages I saw stories written in my mother's hand, memories of my own written from a different perspective. Most importantly, however, I found mom's poetry. I had forgotten how beautifully she could capture the vaporous ramblings of the mind and wrestle them onto a page.
I noticed that the last poem was very short, written in shaky hand and my heart dropped. Towards the very end of her life mom was very confused. The apparitions behind her eyes that I once watched her fight with a pen spilled through her senses into the realms of reality. I remembered back to one of her good days, a few weeks before her passing, when she had asked me to get her journal and pen for the last time, A smile spread along her face despite the severe shaking of her hand as she wrote. After a few ling moments I worked up the courage to look at the single stanza and began to decipher the messy squiggles.
God, I know the glistening choices,
And you always hear your children’s voices.
I pray Lord that you see my road to go,
As I leave for my heavenly home.
Oh the journeys, oh the many paths.
Warm tears slid down my cheeks. Even in the end she firmly planted faith in her God. Fearless. She was, and is, the strongest human I will ever meet.
I entered mom's bedroom and lied down on the bed. Dad hadn't slept there since her passing. I had slept there every night since. I glanced at the nightstand and let out a sigh of frustration; we only had a few days left to leave the premises so no matter how wrong it felt to go through her belongings it needed to be done. I rummaged through cooking magazines, hard candy, glucometer strips, and the small pistol mom always kept by her bed (never loaded).
Finally, I came across a small journal. As I flipped through the pages I saw stories written in my mother's hand, memories of my own written from a different perspective. Most importantly, however, I found mom's poetry. I had forgotten how beautifully she could capture the vaporous ramblings of the mind and wrestle them onto a page.
I noticed that the last poem was very short, written in shaky hand and my heart dropped. Towards the very end of her life mom was very confused. The apparitions behind her eyes that I once watched her fight with a pen spilled through her senses into the realms of reality. I remembered back to one of her good days, a few weeks before her passing, when she had asked me to get her journal and pen for the last time, A smile spread along her face despite the severe shaking of her hand as she wrote. After a few ling moments I worked up the courage to look at the single stanza and began to decipher the messy squiggles.
God, I know the glistening choices,
And you always hear your children’s voices.
I pray Lord that you see my road to go,
As I leave for my heavenly home.
Oh the journeys, oh the many paths.
Warm tears slid down my cheeks. Even in the end she firmly planted faith in her God. Fearless. She was, and is, the strongest human I will ever meet.