Among Her Things

It was a week ago that we had my mother's funeral.

I'd come to Washington because she was in the hospital, and by the end of the week she had died. This was not what I expected when I got here. Sometimes death comes quickly and unexpectedly, and I think it might always be a shock.

I've spent the last few weeks at my mother's house. I feel close to her here, among her things. Where I sometimes catch a breath of her scent. Where I turn around and see in my mind's eye a scene from a memory. Where I can pick something up and feel her. Where I prepare a meal in her kitchen and feel her with me, laughing.

I'm taking a few things home with me. I wonder how they will fit into my house, into my life. I'm not quite ready to let go of the house that was home to five generations of my family. That held our celebrations. That I've known as home since my birth when it was my grandparents' house. 

There is so much to think about, to reflect on, to get used to. When I think about writing about it, I feel overwhelmed. So I decided just to start writing. One piece of writing will never hold everything, just a piece of the story. The empty page feels like a canvas. My words, brush strokes. An image begins to emerge from the space and the color. 

I'm not yet sure what I see. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up. A daily writing practice.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012 and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.