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

can handle.

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.