A Last Goodbye and A Small Miracle
What I write today is a true story, with no adornments of what happened on the days I write about. It was my story and my mother's last story . . .
It was a typical hot, humid August day in Georgia, the kind of day when your hair wilts, your clothes stick to you and you simply want to get home to a cool place and that glass of sweet tea. Of course it had to be the day I needed to run several errands after work. So, I trudged to the library to pick up my books, by the cleaner’s to get my clothes, and then to the grocery store - - whew! As I had all my treasures in hand and wheeled into the driveway I saw my husband waving from the second story window. He related that I needed to turn around and head to my parents house about two blocks away to pick up some corn. Not just some corn, but cream style like my mother always made. Here in the South that entails scraping the corn niblets off the cob, adding cream and lots of butter, and cooking it with love. It’s the love part of the recipe that is most important and this corn was for my daughter, so it had a special helping of love. We all love corn, but it was for her granddaughter that my Mom had truly prepared this dish, working in her kitchen on a sweltering day. My daughter was growing up and my mom was suffering somewhat from empty nest syndrome as college classes and young men were now first on the agenda.
Thankfully my Mom had been able to keep our daughter when I had to return to work. Later she and my dad picked my child up each day after school and I would swing by, talk a lot, and then go to my house that two blocks away.
So I made yet another stop that errand-filled day. It would have to be a quick one as I had things melting in my car. But the in and out visit didn’t bother me too much, for I stopped by almost every day and hung out with my parents. I loved them with my whole heart and never wanted to miss a chance to see them. I ran in, grabbed the corn, chatted for a moment and exited the front door with my usual “Love ya’ . . . bye!”
But just as I went out that door, my mother and I both halted, for there on a bush right next to the door was a Monarch butterfly. He was beautiful, and just lolled there on that hot August day as if he did not have several thousand miles to fly, the same trek that his ancestors had made so many times. We both paused for what seemed like a prayerful moment, and then I was off.
Now I have left out one important fact. My mother had a brain aneurysm, had had it for years. It was discovered in a scan, but it was too deep-seated for an operation that would cause too much damage. So, we all had lived with it, discussing it as little as possible.
But that all changed at 10:30 that night. My phone rang, and when I answered I heard my father’s hysterical voice telling me that my mother had had a stroke. I knew better, I knew that the aneurysm had burst. I also knew that my father was at that moment a man I had never seen. He was the police officer, the war hero who never flinched and never feared anything. But that night was the exception, his mate of 52 years was in trouble, perhaps dying, and he was beside himself. I can actually count that one horrific and critical moment as the day I knew I was grown. I would have to take charge and help them both. That future we feared had arrived.
My mother only made it a few hours once we got to the hospital and passed away about three in the morning. We were all numb with grief, but things had to happen. My father was always one to want details handled. So we made our way home and agreed to meet about 9:30 the next morning to go to the funeral home.
After a sad, sleepless night I dressed to meet my dad. Being a traditional woman I would wear mostly black so as not to seem too loud or garish. I chose and outfit of black slacks, modest black jacket and a white blouse. This is an important detail as it makes what happens next all the more improbable.
I waited in the driveway for my dad, looking anxiously at my watch. This was a watch that had day, month, hour, minute, second displayed. For that was the kind of life we lived, counting seconds as life passed us by sometimes. As I stood there I noted that it was August 25th and it struck me that Christmas would arrive in four months and I would have no mother, no buddy to shop with, to laugh with.
And then it happened - - a Monarch butterfly floated by. As I stood there holding my wrist, he lit and unbelievably stayed and moved his wings back and forth, all the time poised on my watch. He must have stayed there a full minute or more. And he had not been drawn by any bright colors that one would wear to a butterfly house to attract these beauties. It seemed like time had frozen, like the impossible had happened for in my whole life never had a butterfly ever alighted on me in such a way.
Then I knew. Butterflies have long been symbols of resurrection, of life renewing itself, a sign that things go on no matter what. I also knew it was a sign from God, from the fates, from my mother in some strange way. I would have to go on. I would have to be the mother now. I would have to live without a part of my heart. It was sad, enlightening and miraculous all at once.
I later thought of how close I came to not having a last moment with my mother. I could have just told her I would come by tomorrow. I could have been somewhere like a meeting or a special event that caused me to miss my moment. I am thankful to this day for those last few literal minutes with my mother . . . and that the last thing I said to her was “Love ya.” I urge you to always take that moment, and utter that “I love you” for none of us knows when a last moment with a loved one will come.
I still call it the Miracle of the Monarch for hope made its way to me literally on wings and helped me to face the future because I had had a “last goodbye.”
Go to this National Geographic site below to read about the magical and miraculous Monarch. Don’t miss the video at the bottom showing the huge gathering of these beautiful things of nature: