I found my journals that I kept while in the hospital with my mom and then for a few months after her death. I always love re-reading them. I always hate re-reading them.
Never before have I written out what are in these journals to share. Today I think I can.
Here is something I wrote on Wednesday, April 22, 2009. Entitled Tickle.
Watching over her.
A tear swells from her eye.
It slowly moves along her soft cheek.
Towards her ear, where it collects with
the others that have hardened into her hair.
Normally I would brush it away for her.
Because I know the feeling of tickling tears.
While watching over her, I do not cry.
It isn’t until I am home.
Lying on my back, as she lies on hers.
Then a tear swells in my eye.
It slowly moves along my soft cheek.
I let it move on my own.
Feeling what she feels.
I can imagine the thousands of tiny feet
the tear has to manoeuvre down my face.
Each tiny foot leaving a streak behind, drying
into a crust. A crust that is so easy
to wash away, when the reason behind it
will never leave you.
I let as many tears fall as I
Each one finding the path of least
Like raindrops on the car window when
driving on the highway.
But then I wipe them away.
They tickle too much.
As I would wipe them away for her.