Summary

The text is a poignant reflection on the author's experience of loss and mourning following the death of their mother, marked by rituals, memories, and the passage of time.

Abstract

The author describes a deeply personal journey through grief, beginning with the ritual of waking early to witness the sunrise, a practice that contrasts with the heaviness of donning black mourning clothes. The sun's consistent rise serves as a metaphor for life's continuity despite personal loss. The author grapples with the finality of their mother's death, recalling her youthful appearance at her passing and the irony of carrying festive flowers against the somber backdrop of mourning. The village community's silent respect and shared memories of the mother highlight the collective experience of loss. The author's solitary responsibility in honoring their mother's memory, from preparing her resting place to hosting a memorial service, underscores the profound impact of the mother's absence. The passage of time since the mother's death is marked by the anniversaries of her passing, and the author's ongoing struggle with the permanence of her departure. The ritual of Kolivo, a sweet served at Orthodox Christian memorials, symbolizes the enduring connection between the living and the deceased, as the author seeks solace in the memories and love that remain.

Opinions

The author views the sun's punctuality as a reminder of life's unwavering cycle, despite human impatience and the personal sense of delay in the face of grief.
Mourning attire is described as an "offensive line upon [the author's] dignity," indicating a complex relationship with the traditions of grief.
The mother's serene appearance in death is seen as a subtle smile, outshining even the Mona Lisa's, suggesting a peaceful acceptance of her passing.
The author feels a deep sense of regret and connection as they kiss their mother goodbye, noting her lingering warmth.
The villagers' silent respect during the procession is appreciated for its sincerity, yet the author notes the irony of mastering words of grief that are not new.
The author experiences a profound sense of solitude in their mourning, emphasizing the absence of immediate family and the weight of responsibility in honoring their mother's memory.
The act of preparing and presenting the Kolivo is both a duty and a symbol of the author's devotion, with the sweetness of the dish contrasting with the bitterness of loss.
The author's visit to church, despite differing beliefs, reflects a respect for the mother's faith and a shared sense of community in remembrance.
The stories shared by others bring the mother to life in the author's mind, highlighting aspects of her life that were previously unknown to them.
The author expresses a sense of betrayal when removing their mourning clothes, as if the act of undressing signifies a departure from their bond with their mother.
The text concludes with a prayerful wish for the mother's memory to endure eternally, demonstrating the author's enduring love and the hope for her legacy to live on.

Image courtesy of the author, My Mother’s Kolivo.

Adieu

I awoke before the sun, a ritual — early to bed, early to rise.

I awaited the sun’s appearance with anticipation, I felt the sun was late on arrival but we all know the sun is always on time, the sun will always rise but as fallible humans we still impatiently stare at our watches as though that would hasten the arrival of light.

The sun finally did rise, in it’s usual life affirming fashion, just as it does everyday, depending on how one chooses to view the matter. The sun at first seemed to be unhurried and then suddenly it just burst racing against the backdrop of an abstract sky, finding its nest on the billowing clouds of time, it settled in for the duration.

As I had awaited the sunrise…

I donned the oppressive black I’ve been wearing months now. It seemed as though I had just taken them off for the customary period of mourning for father, when I had to again wear their offensive lines upon my dignity. It was the fashion of the day, offense and dignity, a mix-match of sorts.

When you took your last breath it seemed as though you waxed young in appearance, as though you were smiling, your subtle smile perpetual, which would have outdone Leonardo’s Mona Lisa.

The day went dark as I covered my head in black, a symbol of my deepest regret, just before I kissed you adieu for the first if not the final time, you were still warm, my mother.

I walked through the village, today — in that black, as you had done many times before me — for yours. I carried flowers, from the flowers you had planted and tended to, a stark festive irony, against the dreadful black of finality.

The villagers were waking, opening their doors to let the day in with the sun. Their eyes solemnly following my passing in respect, no words were uttered none were necessary, amusing, I thought, I adore new words. But we knew that those words were not new, I had mastered them.

Others had waited to see me coming and waited for me to pass, so that they could follow respectfully behind me.

We walked in the death throes of silence, he who should not be named held us company. As we say, “when you look upon the face of death, it is your face you see”, but who could ever comprehend what I saw, I will not speak of it, you mother took a piece of my pain with you, you helped me carry my load.

Dignity, took steps besides me, they sounded like the now receding shuffle of your blessed feet.

I had washed your new home yesterday, preparing it for today, I lit your eternal flame, the one I carry in the rushes of my heart, that blazes into a roaring inferno, your ashes salting the wounds in my heart. The flowers decorating you resting place were just as head piece that would have adorned the length of your tresses. It seemed as though the flowers wept, the morning dew their tears. Everyone left a token by your side, in your memory.

The days have folded in amongst themselves, where have they gone? From the moment you said your final goodbye, where have the days stored their memories, without you a part of them, what type of fickle friend are these days, that they forget us so hastily.

Three hundred and sixty five days to a year, they’ve turned just as the moon and the sun spin our world’s to dust, finally sealing your coffin in forever’s farewell.

Where are you?, that you allowed time to pass you by, you who dared time to stand still for you, it didn’t — but you dared all the same.

Time passed but held you in the vice of my memory, in the warmth of my heart and my undying respect.

The hours Mother, those hours, that seemed to have no beginning or end, suspended on the beams of my heart, scorched from the burn of your french leave.

The black I wear, day in and day out, mimic the darkness of those hours rooted in my heart.

When I returned home from visiting you, I went to church, I know I’ve shocked you, we didn’t see eye to eye on matters of faith. I believed God is home, all around me, you believed God sheltered in homes of brick and mortar, I still believe I’m correct but I always respected your belief and so I went, in memorial of you and your blinding separation from everything you had worked for and loved.

Everyone from the Island attended, you were after all was said and done, your fathers daughter and my fathers witness. And yet I felt alone, no brothers or sisters, no neices or nephews, your grandchildren, none of them were here.

I felt alone in my mourning of you, I felt it was solely my burden, since I became responsible for every minute detail, they would all have been here if they could, you know this mother.

I felt shattered as I carried your Kolivo to church, the one I decorated with my hands, every piece I placed upon it a tear, my undying devotion.

I never wanted to taste the bitter-sweetness of the kolivo I prepared in your name, and yet forsaken, it was my duty.

It was a long day, mother, greeting everyone, giving comfort to your friends and loved ones who as they wiped away their tears — they foretold of an upcoming rendezvous with you. I saw you with my souls eyes, come alive before me as they recited stories of you I never knew, as a young bride, the mother, the daughter, friend and hero. My hero, you are one of my many few.

As they recited tidbits of your life, I held their frail bodies, in thankful warmth, as though trying to infuse myself in their memories of you, memories they had but I didn’t, their caressing pats on my cheek as though your hand had reached from beyond — for a moment you were here, likened to once upon my hopes and dreams, telling me I was a good girl…

I arrived to the still of our home, it seems abandoned and forlorn,

One thousand and one silences echo the absence of your presence,

A thousand and one silences as I remove the black, that had become my Aegis,

A thousand and one heartwrenching echoes as I feel shame in my nakedness without them,

A thousand and one echoes of horror as I feel it is a betrayal upon removing them,

A thousand and one caresses as I fold them and place them in my chest of memories and hopes, they kept you close,

You do not belong in a chest, you belong on an altar in the halls of hero’s,

A thousand and one tears that echo back into the chambers of my heart, redressing it in blackened fluttering feathers, resting,

A thousand and two silences, I feel I have not done enough,

Mille e très…

…four

…five

They echo back your faithful resounding love,

…six, seven, eight, you are with us here no longer, but reposing in my heart in peace,

… nine, ten… Adieu.

May your memory live eternal.

Koliva/o — Is a sweet served to mourners at an Orthodox Christian, memorial, in memory of a loved one, in exchange for a prayer, a blessing for the repose of the deceased soul.