Black coffee sits to my left, bitter as the bitterness I feel in this season. My mother, weary, not herself, steadily declines as we watch.
How did this happen? Her days running out. Sands slipping faster through the glass. Dying as we continue to live.
Can I help?
I text this question to my sister-in-law one morning before another wave of family arrives and immediately receive an affirmative response and a list.
I try to learn from this.
What do you need is met with a busy signal in my head. I don’t know what I need.
What do I need?
I need my mom to not have cancer. I need big space that I don’t have. I need time, energy, and loads upon loads of grace.
I need to peel back all the extraneous and dive down to the core and then stay there with no expectations.
I need coffee, black and bitter, the drink I have shared with Mom from the beginning.
I need showers, hot and long. Time to meditate as the water pounds my skin.
I need to show up as I am and be seen and heard and understood.
I need engagement and rest and energy and breaks and a house that stays clean and litter pans that sift.
I need to love and teach my kids and care well for them.
I need to cry, wail, grieve, write, teach, cook, clean, work, rest, laugh, talk, sit, stand.
I need understanding that I’m not really sure what I need.