one more
February 3, 2011My mother and Clark had a special relationship. Sometimes he’d call her on his own. Just like he and I had moments that break my heart, they had theirs. I was a little surprised at first at how he latched on to her, how much he loved her, how willing he was to share things with her, if only because his comfort level increased so quickly. Sometimes he let her in instead of me, like at Christmas in 2008. My mom told him how grateful she was to have him in her life and how much she loved him, that he was there. There will be many more Christmases, she said, as full of forced optimism as I was. “Mom …,” he said, looking at her like, come on. You know there won’t be many, or any, more of these. A plea for someone to validate his fear.
I can’t write about the time they last said goodbye without crying, so I’ll write about it while crying. She went to leave the hospice room. She kissed him on the mouth. “One more,” he said. She gave him one more. “One more. One more. One more.” Over and over again.
Now she has dreams about him that are unlike mine. He comes to her as spirit-Clark, tells her he’s okay, says he kisses me every night before I go to bed. “I’m fine, mom.”
If I’m not having those dreams, I’m glad she is. It’s the next best thing.
