Sara Nell Davis - The year of the firsts!
When you have once shattered into pieces, everyone who plots your demise gleefully waits for signs of internal cracking again. My family certainly has. So, when you face a challenge or adversity or lose something or someone special, the choice to deal with the hurt inside becomes simple. You hide it so well that nobody, even with a high-magnitude magnifying glass, can detect the shrapnel from the explosion that threatens to detonate. And because of those factors, I have faced this year of "firsts" alone, not allowing anyone to see the trail of tears trickling as I lived these first 365 days without my Momma.
It's been an unimaginable year celebrating the firsts with nothing to hold on to but memories. Sometimes, my memories evoked pain so deep within that I feared its intensity, asking myself, "Are you strong enough to stand?" But just as I thought I would break from the overwhelming feeling of loss, another memory would invade my senses, making me laugh or smile at her insaneness. And then, I would discover my strength and remind myself of just how stubborn and determined my Momma was, forcing myself to carry on one more of the 365 days before me.
April: There are visions of those last moments with Momma at the hospital and hospice, which will seemingly never fade. But they are not even the worst. The worse ones threaten to rip my heart into two. They are those visions of her entombed upright body being lifted upward by the crane and then slowly again lowered into the ground beneath, into the grave that waited to cradle her. The thud still verberates despite being long ago silenced. Those memories are the ones where I suppress the screams. But none of the first that I have conquered this year compared to the first time my father visited my Momma's grave after her funeral and saw Florida's sand covering the earth that held what he loved so much below. That was our first "first," and there were many more to come.
When the few who had come to say goodbye to Momma returned to their lives, Daddy and I remained where he and Momma had stored their memories. Alone, I began arduously disassembling their lives while Daddy paced the outside, pretending that his world wasn't gone. When I placed some of Momma's things into that first box, I couldn't ignore those feelings of betrayal inside. I was the one who was deducing her life into stacks of boxes on the dining room floor. It seemed almost magical that room existed inside a single one, with the tears escaping my eyes and falling into them. But little by little, I had completed the task, amazed at the memories Momma had kept cataloging all of our lives.
May: My siblings had permitted me to take some of Momma's things without limitations. However, I could only take what items would fit into the back of my best friend's car. As my beloved B has always been, she was the one helping me through the journey, literally and physically. That first hug goodbye to my Dad as he stood in the driveway alone tore deeper than it usually did, knowing this time I was leaving him alone without Momma. However, this time, Momma's three dogs would be traveling with me and not left standing there to aggravate her impatience. I couldn't do what others were so willing to callously do by giving them away to a stranger or putting them to sleep, so I made the only choice possible. I brought them home to live with me. Their little lives and personalities were a part of Momma; therefore, as the years progressed had become a piece of myself. But that first act of responsibility quickly turned to love for them and gratitude for having something special of my Momma's.
The first Mother's Day without Momma came within weeks of losing her. Somehow, I had managed to squeeze five boxes of Momma's things into B's car and home with me, so I spent that day sprinkling a piece of Momma throughout every room in my house. Tears were far from absent as I unpacked what once surrounded her home, representing her. Downstairs on the living room bookshelves, I sat her set of ceramic country children that she once said reminded her of the life she and Daddy had shared. Somehow, they seemed to belong there, blending perfectly with the antique momentoes by the fireplace Momma had given me throughout the years. My grandmother's blanket, once in a plastic bag in her closet, I placed neatly folded on the back of my couch. In the adjacent kitchen, I laid out one of her sets of salt and pepper shakers to display on my stove, put her coffee cup with her name facing forward on my cup rack, and I hung the antique clock that Daddy and I tried fixing together on my wall. Alongside it are the wooden spoon and fork she once hung in her kitchen.
Upstairs I displayed more of Momma's things, filling up the day to remember and yet forget that I couldn't pick up the phone to call her. I placed Momma's jewelry and wooden boxes on my upstairs bookcases, folded among other family possessions. Things Momma had given me years before that she knew I would always treasure and preserve. In my bathroom, I hung an ordinary decorative photo that once was displayed on Momma's bathroom wall. And beside my bed, I flipped my 3D calendar to the date Momma began her journey to God's second death. It remains on that day. A constant reminder of the day she took her final breath! Yes, my Momma surrounds me through the energy attached to her things! They give me and have given me comfort and infinite memories as I push forward through these firsts.
July: The first holiday, Independence Day, without Momma, came and went in a blur. My daughter-in-law, Audrey, had given me a windchime to commemorate Momma, so dutifully, I hung it on my porch. But I couldn't let the holiday go without celebrating it because Momma loved America and all its symbolism. So, I decorated my porch in red, white, and blue to honor her and not out of honor for our Nation. I also took more pieces of Momma that I had brought home with me and scattered them about, using as many of her things for decorations as possible. And when all was said and done, at the end of that day, I sat on the porch in tears and in disbelief that the day had come and gone without her. Those long political talks we often had on the phone were now muted, permanently replaced with an ache that remains in my heart, not a first, but a last.
November: As hard as Independence Day was for conquering grief, it had been nothing compared to Thanksgiving. Momma had made us promise years ago to preserve Thanksgiving for her and not our in-laws. Unwillingly, though, it was a promise I sacrificed when I moved to Alabama and miles away from her. But the memories of Momma cooking her cornbread dressing and various cakes and pies withstands. I cherished the abundance of leftovers after our family meals together because we could eat for days afterward on them. Part of the fun was returning to the kitchen to laugh at ourselves for eating more, even when our stomachs were fighting it. Being away from Momma on Thanksgiving has always been the most difficult, even when she was alive. However, the first with Momma being gone was even worse than imaginable, especially since we spent it with Mitch's family at Cracker Barrell, eating slop legitimately not edible to pigs. The moment the server delivered my plate to the table with its food thrown together on top, I cried for all the Thanksgivings she would no longer be a part of our family. However, remembering how special she made the holiday for us made me even more determined not to spend another in a crowded restaurant among people I didn't know.
December: During my twenty years of marriage to Mitch, nobody has ever asked about my family traditions. Never has anyone regarded the foods that graced my mother's table or included me in their family holiday planning. My mother-in-law and the only daughter-in-law she has ever acknowledged, Tammy, have always done the planning. My phone has never rung to include me while they outlined their plans, nor has it rung to relay the date and time. Instead, I have been told through Mitch when and where to be. They have all made it abundantly clear that I am not a part of their family, and Momma knew how much that hurt me. We spent endless hours discussing it, and inevitably, we would both always conclude the situation would never change. So instead, I should just be filled with gratitude for the years that I had the Arrants as in-laws. Momma loved them equally for their graciousness because she knew for a few brief years I had the privilege of having two loving mothers. Because of Momma, even if through sheer determination, I refused to allow the negativity to overshadow the holiday. As Momma encouraged me when I was missing Momma A, I decided to be thankful for God giving me those seventy-two years with her and to celebrate this first as she would have wanted.
Despite not wanting to, I rescued the boxes from the attic containing the Christmas decorations accumulated throughout the years. The majority of them were given to me by Momma. As I decorated the first tree for my first without her, unwrapping each ornament one by one, I laughed and cried as I cherished every remembrance of her. Nearly every decoration contained a memory and a moment of gratitude. Momma had made it her tradition to give each of her children and grandchildren a new decoration yearly, and I was more thankful than ever for her leaving so much of herself behind. To mark the first year without Momma, I began the same tradition with my granddaughters, beginning with one for each I plucked from my Christmas tree that was given to me by her.
On the tree downstairs, which usually contains presents for my granddaughters, I honored Momma by decorating it with her favorite ornaments-Santa Clause. Momma could not be there to share the holiday with the girls and me; nevertheless, I wanted her presence there through the things that represented her. And while the girls and I baked cookies later in the day, I told them stories about Momma. Stories that I hoped they would remember someday and come to cherish her as much as I did through the memories that I had shared with them. This year, somehow, I felt it warranted the decorating of a third Christmas tree. A Christmas tree that would honor Momma in every imaginable way. So, the last tree, strung in red, white, and blue, I placed on the porch with nothing but other wooden ornaments containing photos of her. Ornaments that I had taken from her collection of decorations.
January: In the days of Momma, Momma spent New Year's relatively the same. On New Year's Eve, as the clock struck midnight in my timezone, Momma would call to wish me happiness for the upcoming year. If she happened to awaken me because I hadn't been able to remain awake, it made it all the more fun for her. The following day, Momma always observed old wives' tales of cooking beans and ham. A tradition I never followed. This first New Year without Momma, I couldn't help but recall the fun of her and our jokes back and forth about her superstitions. But alongside those fond memories of Momma, there also came a deep ache from knowing that my phone never will ring again with the sound of my Momma's voice on the other end.
March: On the day that would have marked their 58th year of marriage, my brother took my Dad to visit Momma at the cemetery. I couldn't be there to help him through the day, but Kenny generously sent me a photo of Dad kneeling beside her grave. As I studied the picture, my face mimicked his hundreds of miles away. It was one filled with grief and unmeasurable loss. My Dad had stopped being able to take care of his beloved cats, so he had forfeited the six of them to me. So, after watching the dust settle from Mitch's car leaving the driveway for work, I retreated to my version of their cat room and held each gift he had entrusted me, letting the liquid fall like a river. Yes, it had been a year full of hurt for me but knowing what my Dad had withstood made it even more painful and difficult.
April: The last of the first came two weeks ago. Easter! Without any small children around, it usually tends to come and go without thought or much emotion. However, this year, I couldn't help but recall that last year was one of the few holidays in recent years that I had been able to spend with Momma. While I decorated Easter eggs with my niece's children nearly 365 days ago, Momma lay in Blake Memorial Hospital, teetering between this life and the one waiting for her. As much as Momma believed in God, she feared her journey home. It seems ironic that Easter would be the last holiday celebrated, especially since one of my favorite stories surrounds the day I came into the world. Momma complained that she couldn't enjoy Easter in 1969 because I had been born the next day. My sister, Angie, an atheist, wouldn't allow me to play the Bible for Momma at the hospital in her presence, but I know despite it, Momma could hear God's words as he waited. And 365 days ago, to this day, he received her into his kingdom, where she now awaits her second death and Jesus' resurrection.
There is a song by Miranda Lambert called "Over You." Over these past 365 days, I have sung the words frequently to that song, sometimes even yelling them out in anger. I think they say it best!
"But you went away
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I'll be okay
But I'm not going to ever get over you."
It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone."
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I'll be okay
But I'm not going to ever get over you."
It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone."
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