Celebration, not mourning

Here are the flowers displayed beside the chalice at this Sunday's service, courtesy of moi. The program says they are in celebration of my mom, my oldest friend and Kathleen. And so they are. All three ladies have birthdays in December, and I'd prefer to accentuate the positive.

It began snowing Friday night and kept it up for about 24 hours, leaving the world covered in a blanket of delightful white for the first time this season. I took that as a sign that it's time for us to turn the page, to look at the world from a fresh, clean perspective.

My resolve was solidified Saturday when I spoke to my mom Saturday night. I did not ask about my uncle's service. I didn't want to know. I let her talk because I thought she needed to. At one point, I asked if my flowers arrived. She said didn't know. There were only three arrangements -- one from my uncle's daughter and grandchildren, one from his stepchildren, and a little basket from somebody that was left on the floor.

SLAP! Yes, that was my arrangement. My mom went on to say it's OK, really, since "no one cares about flowers anyway."

After I calmed down, I realize that it may not have been just carelessly "left on the floor" and so what if they were? It's done. I was surprised that my mother didn't expect me to send flowers, for I care about and love them. (I'm looking at a vase of rust-colored mums on my desk right now.) But while my mother loves me, she doesn't really know or understand me. And nothing can be done about that anymore, either. It is what it is, and I should just appreciate her during whatever time we have left together.

As we hung up, I told her that I was done with the mourning part of remembering my uncle. I said that I am, for the most part, pretty chipper by nature and a week is long enough.

That set the table for Sunday. I came over for her birthday. I presented her with this photo as well as the church bulletin which listed her as birthday as a cause for floral celebration. Then I showed her and my nephews photos of many of the cats at Fried's Cat Shelter, one of my uncle's favorite charities. It was with much laughter and love that we chose a beat-up tom as the recipient of the donation I'll make in his honor. "Danny Boy" was chosen because he showed so much attitude and because my uncle had a soft spot for cats who were a bit the worse for wear. Much better than reliving who said what at the service.

Then I gave her a few little gifts, the four of us ate pie, and I left. She seemed very happy, and so was I.

I'll never forget my uncle. He was a tremendous part of my life. But I can't indulge in the funereal trappings anymore. The sun is out, the snow is clean and white, and life goes on.