A year has passed. The empty place will never be filled by another. My mom will always be my mom, the one who carried me for 9 months and guided me through the ages and stages of life. But things have changed so I decided to re-visit my blog of July 2014 and perhaps update it a bit.
Ma mère nous a quittés il y a un an aujourd’hui. Cette délivrance de son état de diminution est l’ancre sur lequel qu’on s’accroche. La profondeur de notre tristesse et de nos émotions perdure mais s’attenue..
July 9th, 2014 would have marked the 65th anniversary of my parents wedding. Quite the feat it would have been- except that my mom drifted home to her Maker on July 7th. She had enjoyed a full life until the last few years when Alzheimer’s debilitated her almost beyond recognition. Her death was truly a release for her and those who love her.
De voir diminuer de plus en plus un être cher est difficile. On ne peut rien faire pour arrêter le processus. Alors on doit accepter la personne devant nous, comme elle est. De la comparer à la personne qu’elle était n’est pas aidant. La consolation que je me donne est qu’elle n’était pas consciente de ce changement profond.
While she hadn’t used my name for 2 years, she did smile at times when I’d visit as if in recognition. On our last time together she let me do a homemade manicure and accepted lots of cream. She seemed to enjoy the slow massage to her hands and fingers. As I did it, I thought of all that those hands had done for me over the years. I thanked her.
We never know which interaction or gesture will be our last with someone we hold dear. Wouldn’t it be great if they all could be positive and nourishing?
J’ai un nouvel arbre à l’île du Prince Édouard—un chêne rouge que j’ai planté près de l’avoine sur le terrain ou sa mère et les ancêtres MacCormack ont habité depuis les 1790’s. Son premier hiver était dur. Un jeune chêne a besoin de patience, car ça prend du temps pour voir les feuilles au printemps. Mais avec le temps, il sera un symbole vivant de généologie.
This living signpost will help me remember. The tree is now scrawny but has branches and its leaves finally unfurled in late June. It already towers over me. Its presence on my land will speak to me often, not just on anniversaries, but on ordinary days. As time puts distance between her death and my grief, the tree will branch out and grow up to outlive me and serve as a testimony to the ensuing generations. When I can no longer speak of her nor underline her anniversary. That tree will continue to proclaim Lucy Christian Shorgan’s impact on PEI and on us. Generations of her offspring will be able to gather under its shade.