A shift in conditions

The storm arrived in stages. The first phase covered the gray – wet, heavy snow without grace. Next, wind came, packing wet snow against tree bark. Then, it grew quieter and the branches caught the snow. The fingers of the trees appeared, the lace, the needles, the up and down of every limb. The buds on the trees turned into tiny white dots, hundreds everywhere.

I had woken with a dread that morning, then felt around inside until I found its source: Today marked the 18th anniversary of losing my mother.

It was not possible.

I let the unbearable and unbelievable number settle on my chest, not moving from the bed. The anniversary snuck up on me like this every year, a tiny dread that grew and grew as the day approached.

I would grow irritable and distracted, as Christmas came and went with all the reminders of my mother not being there. Then January would arrive in full form – and with it, the dread would build. And each year it took me a second longer to place it, then, to remember.

18! My children were only 2 and 4 back then. My mother had missed their youth, their first grade, their first car and, just now, their first love. I laid in bed, and my heart thudded with the list. My mother would have loved it all. The school singalongs and recess battles and hearts that needed mending. The idea of my mother missing all that rushed in and settled on my chest, too.

18! We had been married only 10 years then, newlyweds compared to now. My mother had never seen Tim with a beard. She hadn’t seen the weeks it took for him to grow it. She hadn’t seen me deciding that I loved it, insisting that he keep it. My mother would have cupped him under the chin, You look good, Timmy. I let this come and settle, too - the thought that my mother had missed so much of the man who carried me through life.

18! I was 50 now, and, with a lurch, I realized I was fast approaching my mother’s age. Would I catch up and surpass 59, grow older than my own mother? I hoped and prayed and begged to God that I would. This fear, I let settle on my chest, too.

Then, the dog clambered in, her tail thumping against the bed. A dog my mother had never met. I dropped my hand over the edge and found a wet nose waiting. Next, the cat jumped up and curled her tiny tail around her tiny paws, forming a perfect circle on my chest.

I had picked out the kitty just a few months after losing her.

“We need some happy in this house!” I had said on the way home from the shelter. So we had named her exactly that.

This morning, on the anniversary of losing my mother, Happy settled on my chest, her gold eyes against gray fur, drifting off to sleep, her purrs bigger and bigger, the longer I stayed still.

I wasn’t going anywhere. Outside, the snow fell harder, the fingers of the trees grew thicker, the drifts deeper. I held it all in my chest as I pet Happy.

And, I grieved.

Then, without notice, the wind settled and the flakes slowed. They held air, blossomed and fattened, fully formed now. The sky filled with intricate patterns, swirling and turning, one upending into the other, a snow globe. The trees had no choice - they stood back and let the sky have the floor.

It was stunning.

The stark gray transformed into wild beauty - under the same sky, out the same window, on the same day - all within moments, with nothing more than a shift in conditions.

I let that sink in, too.

Then - also, without notice - I was filled with different memories of my mother. Good ones, funny ones, laughing ones. I thought of the times my mother had done this or said that, and my chest moved - this time with laughter. I woke Happy, her purr coming back to life, but I stayed put - letting the good arrive next.

A shift in conditions had come inside, too.

❤️