#86 Blinded - Dallailte

It was fair weather in late March with a blue sky and wisps of airy clouds that made the heavens look like an unmixed blotch of paint on an artist's pallet. It surprised me – the nice weather. I'm not sure why – maybe I secretly hoped for rain and that all the rooms where they usually held these types of events would be booked and the director would say something along the lines of, "Sorry miss, guess we'll just have to skip it.". But none of that happened. The sun shone without a threat of dark clouds as the minister, Lyle and I huddled under and old birch tree.

What a peculiar emotion, to have waited so long for something – really anything – to happen, and now that it was to want nothing more than for it to be over quickly. I suppose I never got so far as to picture this. I'd always imagined myself in some strange utopia where I would be holding my mother's hand instead of standing in front of a pearl colored urn carrying her ashes. I liked to create a world in which she'd had amnesia or another cliché from a soap opera that would be explained in a neat little package and then we would go out to ice cream and everything else we missed.

I would never have to wonder who I was any longer, or fear that I would follow her same path.

A slight pressure on my hand reminded me of Lyle's presence and simultaneously that I would never be either of those things. Her hand naturally found its way to mine and she squeezed it momentarily. I shook my head then gathering my bearings my eyes found hers. She was serene, just as she had been the first night on the train. That night was a world away.

Her lips curved upwards ever so slightly as I had found she often did when she did not have the words but wanted to convey consciously she was there for me.

I diverted my attention to the minister who waited patiently a few feet directly across from us. He stood with his shined shoes that sank into the grass. Next to him the a cracked bench and on the bench the urn. The urn looked so lonely on the unfinished wood that I had gone off to pick some tall grasses and cattails from where the land met the pond. The unique bouquet surrounded the cream colored urn. An easel flanked the bench and on it stood my mother's self-portrait in its understated slim wood frame.

I gave a timid nod as I met the minsters eyes, his patience was to be duly commended. I held my breath as he began to speak.

"We are gathered here today..."

When we – or rather Lyle – set up the service among the first question was for any special memories, stories, achievements. When I failed to supply those he promptly asked about her basic character rattling off simple personality traits that would apply to anyone who reached the point in their life when they fit in an eighteen ounce container.

Sensing my agitation Lyle politely suggested to the minister that I need a day to think it over.

That night I went home and read and re-read her journal, attempting to soak up any aspect of her personality. It was near morning when sleep overtook me and Mo Soileireacht rested on my chest like a security blanket. For the first time in a long time I woke naturally from warm sunshine on my cheek. There was no jolting dream that day, nothing that made me wake in a sweat or dizziness in my head. Still, I did dream.

My mother was before me - her whole self - not just her portrait or a floating head. It was her in the flesh sitting on the bench beside the wildflowers. She held out her hand and suddenly I felt small. My own hand fit in hers and I expected her to pull me to the bench but instead she used my own arm as leverage to lift herself from the faded wooden planks.

It was night and we walked in silence around the moonlit pond. I could think of nothing to say and as we rounded the last curve she let go of my hand. I didn't protest, I was anchored to my spot as I watched her wade into the water. My mother walked to the middle of the pond before she looked back at me. In the moons spotlight she was illuminated. Her features were more clear than I'd ever seen them and her eyes lit up like the moon itself.

A wave was all I could muster as the moons light faded until she was gone.

In that moment, it all felt completely natural. No words passed between our lips, but what we conveyed was greater than words.

When I woke the pain in my chest that I had become so accustom to flickering, like a lightning bug in the daylight it was no longer as harsh. In my own way I was able to say goodbye to my mother, and that is what I truly wanted all this time. My jumbled mind untangled strand by strand. In the beginning I thought that all I wanted in the world was to know my mother. I wanted everything from her world condensed onto the back of a postcard. But now I saw that what I really wanted – what I really needed - was a chance to say goodbye. A chance for us to meet face to face in the light of day, and in doing so we would both pull one another out of the shadows that we'd imposed on each other.

Closure is pain. It's reliving that pain all at once.

It isn't static or peace or acceptance. It can be angry, hell it can be crying on your floor at two am because you remembered that you'll never be able to hear their laugh again. Closure is knowing what you have and what you do not. It is blatantly honest with you as it throws you from wall to wall before setting you on a patch of summer grass and beginning the process all over again.

My biggest fear was learning something about my mother so dreadful that I wished I'd never opened up a single box in Unit #16. In many – if not all – ways that fear came true. But in the realization that my fear was a reality, I found that I was wrong. What I was truly, deeply afraid of was finding that I could not handle the truth of my family. That I was one big character flaw rolled up into a weak excuse for a human being.

I feared finding that after all this time of chasing a memory I couldn't hold it in the palm of my hand without getting burned and dropping it to the floor.

But here I was. With both hands I grabbed the truth by the nape of its neck and dragged it into the light.

"Charlotte Ellis, a glorious painter, lover of nature, simple beauty, and many things that the world was not able to see." The wispy haired orator began. His voice was soft and soothing as he held his folded hands at his waist.

I leaned against Lyle and sighed.

"May would you like to say a few words?" The ministers gentle touch returned me to the moment.

I straightened slightly from my stance at Lyles side and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. As my eyes met with the urn my hands made their way to the locket that rested on the divot in my clavicle. "I never knew my mother." My voice trembled like a plucked guitar string. "I never knew my mother, and I never will. I used to think that the not knowing meant that I lost a little piece of myself. How could I be me without knowing where I came from – who I came from." I took another deep breath and looked toward the center of the lake. Though it was early in the day and the sun had long taken the moons place I could see the cratered spotlight that reflected in the center of the calm water. "To be perfectly honest, her absence blinded me. It blinded me to realizing my own growth and that I had come to find a family just as loving as I could ever imagine." I thought of Grace and the White Pine B&B as I smiled to myself. Giving Lyle's hand a squeeze I went on.

"I never knew my mother, but now I understand her. I see her in everything. And that I the most beautiful gift a parent could ever give their child."

I released Lyle's hand and took two steps forward until I was clasping the urn tightly between both of my hands. "Thank you." I whispered and without another word I opened the lid and flung my mother's ashes into the air. A breeze caught the ash and for a moment I swore the seemingly insignificant particles formed a human figure in the air. She didn't move and neither did I as she floated down toward the pond of Mo Soileireacht, finally at peace.

We sat on the bench long after the minister left and until the sun began to set over the tree line.

With my mother's portrait under my arm we walked back to the car hand in hand.

"What you said," Lyle wove her fingers through mine as she balanced the card table under her other arm. "I understand about being blinded. After my parents left I became so focused on everything else so I wouldn't have to dive too deep into who they were. It's the opposite of what you did." She managed a laugh and I smiled with her. "But it was to the same end. We were both not ready to live our own lives and so we tunneled our way through it."

"Will you take me to visit their graves sometime?"

She nodded and we walked past the thick topiary at the edge of the Country Club. A light spring breeze caught me as we rounded the corner to the parking lot and almost immediately my eyes began to water. A tear fell on the speckled pavement and all of a sudden I was unable to control the waterworks that dripped from the corners of my eyes.

I let go of Lyle's hand and used my sleeve to wipe the tears away but more returned and soon I was sobbing. Lyle took the painting from my hand and tucked it neatly into the trunk.

"I don't know why I am crying. I never cried about my mother before - shouldn't I be happy now?" I couldn't seem to keep my eyes open as the tears rolled out. "They arrested Monroe for murder and Frankie said the logs he found at the Country Club place Monroe here the night of her death. It's all over." I waved my hand back at the pillared doorway. "Why am I sad?"

It'd been less then six months since the night the police uncovered my mother's bones. To this day I am unsure of what drove the police to search the pond, but my suspicions lay with Frankie's relationship to the force.

Days after the confirmation of identity Monroe was arrested. There was no trial. On the advice of his attorney Monroe confessed after the police found signatures identifying him at the scene and the ballistics matched his gun. The final stake was a staff member who recalled seeing the two of them walk off into the woods, but remembered only Monroe returning.

Although I didn't get my chance to look Monroe in the eyes as he marched off to jail, I found solace in the strangers testimony. Someone remembered my mother. I'd always thought that she was alone with no one but me to notice she'd left this world too early.

After Frankie relayed the news to me I tracked down the man.

He was in his sixties with grey hair that was well manicured so that no loose hair fell over the wire rims of his glasses. Marvin – or Marv for short – he explained, did not know my mother well. He noticed her keeping Monroe company over the months of their affair and was surprised when she returned a year later. He couldn't tell me anything personal that I so longed to know, but his acknowledgment was enough.

"Now you have someone to mourn." Lyle's words broke through my thoughts. "And it's ok."

-