It's Friday night. It's been a long week.
Jeff is upstairs taking a nap. Jack is down for the night. I am in the kitchen listening to Debussy's Clair de Lune, one of Mom's favorite pieces of piano music (or at least that is what we, her children, have so designated).
During her funeral mass, Jenny hired a harpist to play it at a moment of meditation in the mass. As I listened to it, I just fell apart. Completely and utterly. The music opened up an escape valve that was just waiting to blow as all the grief welled up, seeking any weak spot to push out, flood through, overwhelm, some way, some how.
And yet there was this little boy there at my side, who didn't understand what was going on and couldn't possibly understand why his Dad would be sad.
As sad as I was, I was more worried about the affect of my grief on Jack. He and I didn't have the words to communicate that it was ok, I was just sad. I was ok, but sad.
Taking a page out of my Mom's book, I suppressed it as well as I could because, according to Gert, your kids come first. That was her rule and it was not to be violated. I tried to find happiness in the music that she had played time and again on the old Packard baby grand piano in our living room.
So now, with the house quiet, the guys asleep and me alone and quiet, I am diving into the music. I am playing it over and over and really really trying to listen to it as she did when she played it.
I miss you Mom.
