I'd forgotten, until my brother called from Nova Scotia on his way to her grave. Her final earthly bed lies in the Wolfville Baptist cemetery, high on a hill and surrounded by green grass and old trees. It suits her, and I was glad that he was heading there to say hello.
I don't know why I forgot this day, but I've done so for the past couple of years. And now it's seven years, seven years gone that she's been gone. Seven's one of those numbers, you know? But seven-league boots won't take me to her; I can't labor for seven years to win her back. I have to wait. And that's only on those days that I believe.
Well, actually, my determination to see her again may power those days. In fact there are some moments when I'm not afraid of death because then I can see her again. I choose to believe that.
The last few months, I've become afraid of becoming my mother; doesn't every woman? Or so I'm given to understand. And by that, I mean my mother when she was stubborn, micro-managerial, set in her ways.
On the other hand, if I can be as strong as she was, as, paradoxically, unafraid as she was, as her as she was ... that would be a gift.
I miss her.
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