I had this dream a month before my mother passed on July 22. I read this recollection of the dream at my mother’s funeral service this past Tuesday morning.
But there she was. In the kitchen, cooking for me and my brother. Looking more alive than ever; probably healthier than the both of us.
But it scared me.
She was supposed to be “sick,” layed up in the hospital. And if she was discharged and allowed to come home she should’ve been in bed. Resting. I was afraid that she was confused. What with all the medications they have her on and the effects of the chemotherapy, and radiation she had months back, and the cancer cells that are renting out space in her brain. I was afraid that she might not remember me. That she would act strangely toward me.
She turned around and sort of smiled at me, still engaged in the cooking she was doing, pot of food in one hand, stirring spoon in the other. I was overwhelmed. How could she be so worried about preparing dinner for me and my brother when she was still recovering from everything she’d been through? With cancer? With her whole life?
I felt every emotion bottled inside my tall, dark frame combust sending the pressure up to my lid. I was blown away. We embraced one another. We hugged, pot of food still in her left hand and the spoon still in her right, around me.
I woke up. I burst out into tears. I gasped. I fought to catch my breath.
She’s so strong.
I love her.