In Memory of My Beloved Lucy

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
starMore than a week ago, my mom left us.  Death, like the proverbial thief in the night, took her away in her sleep.  Of course I was expecting this. She was, after all, 78 years old and for the past year or so, had been confined to her bed, painstakingly and patiently cared for by my youngest brother, Carlo. That day however, was our wedding anniversary; husband and I were planning to buy cake and ice cream to celebrate with her.  So waking up to learn she’s gone, and not having been able to bid her farewell was short of earth-shattering. 
So, here I am, left with nothing but memories of her. I gather each in my mind, those childhood ones most prominent and haunting.  I guess when one thinks of mothers, the immediate association is one of childhood: times when I was scared and her presence would comfort me, or when she would lull me to sleep with soft, rhythmic pats on my bottom. To any child, a mother is a source of emotional security and mine wasn’t an exception. I traverse those years of my life, the good and bad stuff I went through, with her presence figuring prominently in them, as if I never left her side to build a family of my own, because always, in everything that I did, she was like a shadow guiding me and then anchoring me when i stumble or cushioning me when I fall. I feel disoriented because her passing is slowly but insistently sinking in, compelling me to face the reality that from now on, I will have to make it on my own, with only the impressions of her voice encouraging me on.

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