April 2004

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An instance of small world, brought to me by Bev. She has a lovely calendar for sale at Lulu.com. After I looked at her calendar, I went on to look at other things on the site, and happened to find this calendar by someone whose name I recognized, David Bibb. Therein is the small world.

David and I met years ago, when both of us were singing in the choir at the local Lutheran Church. My late chosen brother D. was the director, and was responsible for both of us being part of the group---we wanted to work with him. We all (including D.) drifted away from there, eventually, and it has been a few years since David's path and mine crossed.

Anyway, after seeing the calendar, I decided last night to see if he had any other web presence. He does; the website for his recently-opened photography business. After I looked at the gorgeous pictures, I used the convenient contact form there to say hello, and to tell him how small the world is.

April 24

My mother is buried in our home church cemetery, next to my father and close to some other paternal family members. I occasionally go to visit their graves. There are almost always flowers at the family marker. A couple of the cousins who live closer are good about taking seasonal arrangements, and making sure those are changed as needed.

I've never been much of one for taking flowers to the cemetery, but I do take something to leave when I visit.

It had bothered me that the last six weeks of her life my mother was deprived of coffee. She had been on a respirator, and was being nourished and hydrated. But I suspected somewhere deep inside, she missed her coffee. It had been a favorite thing of hers all her life, and there was no way for her to have it.

Yes, I know in the greater scheme of what was going on, that was trivial. But it did stick with me.

A year or so after Mother died, after hearing a similar idea from someone on a talk show, I started a small, very personal ritual. Every time I go visit my mother's grave, I take coffee with me, in a travel cup.

When I get to the grave, I pour a little of the coffee on it. It's my way of sharing with her something that we shared much of my life, and of saying I'm sorry that the last six weeks of her life she was deprived, and that I love her, and that I thank her for introducing me to coffee lo those many years ago. It means a lot to me, though it might look odd to anyone witnessing it.

Today, the eighth anniversary of Mother's death, I'm not in visiting distance of the cemetery. But I am able to raise my cup of coffee, in celebration of and appreciation for her life. And in love.