Lady of the Lake

Mother love is the fuel that enables a normal human being to do the impossible.--Marion C. Garretty

When mom was a teen, she an her friends used to ride out to Lake Chelan and go skinny dipping. As our boat pulls away from the dock on Saturday evening, I am filled with memories of myself as a teen. I remember what a wild, confusing, carefree time it was in my life, even though I had a head full of worries. Mostly, I couldn't wait to be old enough to get "away" and I wonder, as I stare out at the clear, clean water, if mom felt the same way. Maybe all teens have that angst, that pull of what comes next. I wish now that I'd asked her about it. Too late...it's too late for her to tell me any more of her stories, but I will cling to the ones I did get from her.

An hour out and the Captain of the Lady of the Lake comes to tell us it's time. Before that moment, I thought I'd want pictures of her ashes floating free, but now a photo feels vulgar and intrusive. We walk to the back of the boat and my husband opens the bag containing mom's ashes. We are all quietly crying, as each brother takes a handful and releases it out over the water, the rest of us dropping rose petals in to float along side her remains. The sun is setting now and in the quiet of the moment I want to scream, to wail, but I keep silent until all the ashes are gone. My husband remarks, "Well, mom is skinny dipping in the lake again," and we all laugh. The humor of his statement is a welcome hug to abate the pain. I walk to my husband's brother, Randy, and take his hands, ashes clinging to his skin, and rub them against my cheeks, closing my eyes as the tears flow, holding onto her a moment longer. A deep breath, and then another--now the boat is moving again, taking us back to shore. "Dance with me," I whisper to my husband, who has come to put his arms around me. He takes my hand and leads me up to the top deck, puts his arms around me, and gently sways, holding me close. I don't know if what I was feeling in that moment was peace, exactly, but it did feel like closing a chapter and standing on the cusp of writing a new one. Perhaps that feeling is what people refer to as "closure", but I believe that some passings leave behind a hole inside of you that never really heals. You learn to maneuver around it, and things grow over it, but it's always there with you, and it's always "empty". The good news is, usually those who leave a hole in our lives when they're gone, fill us up in so many other ways that we can live with the "empty". It is a delicate, beautiful balance, and in the end it's worth the cost.

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