Her petite hand in mine, the feel of her soft downy hair under my chin, we slow dance in the darkened kitchen. Filling the tiny kitchen with his voice, Willie Nelson croons “September Song” harmonizing with the chorus of crickets, the heralds of late summer.
“Oh, it’s a long, long while
From May to December
But the days grow short,
When you reach September.”
My heart wanders back to the feel of another tiny hand in mine, his delicate head tucked under my chin. We waltzed for hours, me fumbling and tripping, learning the dance of motherhood. The arms and back that ached as we first danced, grew strong. The legs that danced grew strong as we swirled in the darkened kitchen listening to the call of the birds at dawn.
“When the autumn weather
Turn leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time
For the waiting game.”
I feel her body droop with sleep, my heart takes a picture as I keep dancing. I wonder if she will remember dancing with her grandmother in the kitchen, the intricate steps we weave navigating her appointed guardians stretched out on the floor, their large furry bodies blocking doorways. The shepherd takes point as the husky takes perimeter, protecting their diminutive mistress their life’s pursuit.
“Oh the days dwindle down
To a precious few . . .”
Awake all night, body aching, the hours dwindle down until the hour we expect your car hit the pond. My body sways in the kitchen, arms empty. Mothering is hard. I made many mistakes. But I have no regrets for the hours we spent dancing when you were a baby. Your tiny body snuggled to mine, they were precious few days. The years flew by and then one night I went to bed and the next morning you were dead. We never got a chance to dance again.
“And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you.”
Waiting for dawn on this the eighth anniversary of your death, I listen to “September Song” and weep. I close my eyes and in my mind I see you tall and strong. My hand, aged and worn, rests in your hand that is strong and lean, and we dance.
This is absolutely beautiful. I can not imagine your pain. Each fall season must be so difficult to enter and anticipate.
Thank you, it is a mixed bag. I love the cool wind and changing leaves, but it aches all at the same time.
I need to remember to only read these post when I am alone and able to fully absorb the profound words written on the page. Heartache, my friend. Love to you.
Much love to you Mary, thank you for taking the time to sit and share the heartache.
There are no words. My heart is with yours.
I am so glad Justin met you in the dwindling days of September. You were and remain a gift to us.
“We never got a chance to dance again”. That sentence says it all, and I send you love on this heart wrenching day and all your other days of pain as well.
Thank you so much Kate.
I’ve had you much on my mind and in my heart this week. Prayers for you, my sister.
Thank you Angie.
I’m thinking of Justin’s beautiful soul these days, as he beholds the face of Jesus. I ask him for prayers for us. Peace to you and Doug.
Thank you so much Rene.
Terri, what an exquisite portrait of mothering, grandmothering, and the way your grief is woven into the joy. Your writing is such a gift in so many ways.
Thank you Melinda! Crazy as it sounds, It was like making a loaf of braided bread, different threads, one loaf. Writing and baking are similar at times. Thank you for your kind words of encouragement!