The realization of a Eulogy on Christmas Eve
"She is the morning lights warmth and the cold bite freezing water lines, the soft feathers of down that lull me to sleep. She is both the storm and the shelter. She is Christmas eve and every eve thereafter. She is home and home is in my heart."
We had awoke to the sound of what was thought to be rain on the tarp above our tent, but once we unzipped and peered into the vestibule where our packs lay, outside the square of our tarp's coverage was a blanket of snow, still falling. It was early September in the Rockies where anything was possible. We quickly broke down camp and geared up before making our way down the trail with Mount Assiniboine snow caped, blue water below, surrounded by yellow tipped larches blanketed by winters arrival. I had wanted so badly to stop and shoot but there was no time as we rushed passed Nasiet huts towards the helipad were I bid farewell to my partner who carried the last of our food, and our shelter on his back for his hike out through Wonder Pass.
It took hours before the helicopter could depart from Canmore to take me and my injured hip back to my van at Mount Shark. After the wait and it’s chopping sounds bouncing off the mountain walls it finally landed, snow flying as the attendant yelled, FLIGHT TWO ON DECK NOW!!!! I was afraid to fly, and loaded into the helicopter with 5 strangers and no moral support before a quick bank had me sideways, all the trails I’d hiked for days below surrounded by the most beautiful untouched transition of seasons. When I reached the van, I drove to the trailhead, made fresh food that awaited me, and waited for my partner to emerge. We had agreed had he not arrived by late morning the following day I was to worry, but estimated his arrival to be early evening should he make it all the way through grizzly country and a first snowfall alone.
The helicopter had completed its day after shuttling us out and in, the air fell silent allowing the weather to take centre stage. I sat in Liv, where I watched a storm approaching from far away enough to know he was hiking in its belly. I was worried and all I could do was wait. My mind settled into the woods where I hoped he had beat the torrent and was sheltered on his final kilometres. It was not up to me if he would emerge singing songs or yelling hey bear!, or if he wouldn’t emerge at all. I had to sit and watch as the storm made its way to the doorstep of the van, howling and barking her way through before leaving me in silence. A feeling I knew all too well.
December 24, 2019
Letter 4
How do I write the words of every mother’s worst nightmare?
Time is passing and I am preparing for your celebration of life. I am asking myself, how do I write the words of a mother’s eulogy?
I’ve not been terribly keen on seeing anyone as I’ve appreciated it just being you and I, and not you and I at the same time. I’d rather write you another letter, or sing to you in the car by myself. I’d rather talk aloud to myself about my wretched Starbucks service as though you are near.
We pulled into the parking stall on Christmas Eve. 6 mountain passes later and about an hour from home I had this push to get all the boxes full of your things out of my truck and into my house. Did I think I was bringing you home? Like the time you left Edmonton and I opened the door on Tallus Ridge and we had a year to connect. V had said he was going to jump in his truck and go let the dogs out and it all hit me. This heavy weight of defenselessness against reality. My wall went up and I can’t even explain what took over. I began to gather what I could and walked away. I wanted to be alone.
I got in the door and put the box of your things down. This was nothing like you leaving Edmonton. This was a mother bringing her daughter home... in boxes. The wave was relentless and I hit the floor. I screamed, I hit things, I threw things. Just me and anger. I became determined to bring all of “you” out of the car and into the apartment.
Up and down the stairs I went, alone in my rage, box by box as the rest of the world put cookies out for Santa and opened presents. I was pretty sure I was the only mother on earth packing her pain directly into her space and each time I crossed the threshold it grew in size. On my last box I had your plants. The heaviest box and I carried it anyways. The elevator door was about to close and then... someone stuck their foot in. Two people got in. Family. They took one look at me and fell silent. We rode upwards, just me, them, and my pain. They arrived at their floor and he held the door. She put her hand on my back. Contact. Like a mother. Contact. Grounding. Kindness.
“You will be ok?” She asked.
I couldn’t speak so I gestured something between yes and stop.
The door closed.
I got to the apartment and the over watered plants were too heavy. I dropped them so I could open the door and with all my might I shoved them, the last of “you” into the hallway. The rest of the world was sitting around the Christmas tree. I was to nurture your plants. I didn’t want the plants. I wanted my daughter to be put back in her bed before her alarm went off on December 10th and sleep in... so I could put out cookies for Santa, open presents and sit around the Christmas tree.
Put her back! I want her back!!! Just me and my resistance. Eventually my resistance attacked my stomach as the crying was to much and I threw up. I threw up the ideas that all of this is going to stay a tragedy, that every day I will yell PUT HER BACK, the paralyzing fear of what life will look like without you. I threw it all up.
I returned to your boxes and they became your things. Your things became memories, and memories became light. The resistance softened into your presence. My expected moment was over, and I have no intentions of repeating it.
So how do I write the words when there aren’t any and how do I speak for mothers?
I would tell every mother losing their child... she will be ok and I’d gently touch her back.
I don’t recall how it came to be that we had collected her things and it fell on that day. I’m not sure that at that time, time mattered. The day she died I requested to go home and my partner obliged, driving through the mountain pass as I swayed from gutting tears to silence just to reach my bed. She was gone. I just wanted something familiar. When the house became unbearable he drove me to the mountains to sit in the stillness of the snow. Nature knows how to soften my edges.
It was about 20 minutes past his predicted time when he emerged from that trail. I was so relieved. I had made him a big spaghetti meal as an offering to the universe to not put him in harms way. The universe listened. We ate and talked about how wonderful it was to get off the trail and into the van, our home. The familiar comforter of home. We slept at mount Shark, frosted windows and a cranky water pump trying to make heads or tails of its frozen lines. Liv was an island van in the Rockies. A fish out of water. We were safe and that is all that mattered.
It’s was too cold to sleep in and we made our way just past sun up. Kananaskis was layered with reflections of the morning light against its frost covered earth. The mountain faces coming into gradual glow, it was the quietest of mornings as our home made its way through the Smith Dorian towards Canmore.
Photos of that trip are next to her on the van’s memory wall as a reminder that it is she that moves mountains. She is the morning lights warmth and the cold bite freezing water lines, the soft feathers of down that lull me to sleep. She is both the storm and the shelter. She is Christmas eve and every eve thereafter. She is home and home is in my heart.
With Metta,
L.
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