Daffodils on Mom’s floor
After my mom died, my siblings and I laid a bouquet of daffodils at the spot of her passing.
I wanted to include a picture of that bouquet in a post earlier this year, but I couldn’t find the picture, though I spent hours looking.
My kids both fell asleep early this evening. I paused in the middle of doing some chores and decided I had to immediately compare pictures of my eldest son at five months with pictures of my currently five-month-old son.
There between pictures of my mom’s life celebration and my beloved friend Piete playing with my then tiny older son, I found the photo. Not when I wanted to find it, nor what I was looking for now, but perfectly timed.
One of my most popular posts was about who my oldest son is meant to be. Right now, it is my job to discover who I am meant to be. It’s challenging and thrilling wrestling with this question. While my more logical side scoffs at the idea of signs, my softer side is primed to read anything and everything with a sense of wondrous inquiry: What am I supposed to take from this moment?
Many months after I first wrote how I feel my mom still, tonight I feel enveloped in her loving presence. And while part of me thinks it’s absurd to read too much into finding a single electronic picture of flowers on a floor, another part of me feels like my mom is guiding me back to that room. Back to that dream of standing with her at its doorway, and my sense upon awakening that I could–as her daughter, the daughter of an Amazon–be or do anything … anything at all, except lose her.