In Mom and Dad’s old bedroom, there is a vase of dried roses. Roses that Dad gave to Mom years ago for some special occasion. She kept them. The house is filled with meaning, marks.
I feel like a vagabond flying back and forth from Houston, as familiar with this house as with my own. I feel absolutely alone and yet, absolutely together with my extended family. I am here and I am also ‘there.’
Teary eyed, I turned on the shower. A stalk of dried lavender sits on the extra cake of soap on the bathroom counter. Another reminder of last summer when I brought Mom springs of fresh lavender from a neighborhood rockery.
Hey, it didn’t end with the lavender. On the way to Mom and Dad’s adult family home an hour later, I noticed trees ablaze with fall colors. I thought I’d stop and gather a bunch to take to Mom. She loves fall leaves, she’d bring them home and dip them in a pot of hot wax so they’d remain lovely throughout a winter, maybe for years. Then I remembered that today she’d probably not see the red leaves I’d gather.
This is really, really hard.