Barb's mom called this morning to talk about mom’s passing. I should set the stage, however, so you will sense the double entendre within the quote.
In our family the grandkids named their grandparents.
My dad was Grandpa.
Barb’s dad is Wrinkle Free.
Barb’s mom is Roller Skate.
My mom was Cookie.
How did each grandparent name spring to life within a child's mind? Use your imagination.
So, back to the quote. While talking about Cookie grandma, Roller Skate said:
“She wrote her own recipe.”
Wow. Indeed.
On a related note, and at risk of being judged a thoroughly inappropriate son, I haven’t stopped smiling since hearing news of mom’s death. I know, I know. What kind of a shit-head admits to anything so despicable? My mom is gawd-damned dead. I’m supposed to feel really, really sad. Surround myself with a somber shroud. Should speak reverently, and in hushed tone, of the dearly departed. But I can’t. Have been smiling constantly, ear to ear, for hours and as always, slept great last night.
We mourn a violent or sudden death. Wish for a gentle, natural death. But is there really much difference? Nearing the end of her life, my mom could barely see, hear or taste. She spent the last 6 months in what is essentially a small closet without light, whose door opened sparingly. It seems so unfair.
No more. Her burden is gone. She’s free. Mom is mom again. There, wherever the hell there is.
That’s why I haven’t stopped smiling since yesterday afternoon. Am unbelievably happy, for mom and dad.
