Grief is a jerk.
It hides in memories you’d think wouldn’t have any power, bursting out and getting its ick on you when you were just trying to get on with your day.
I was singing the alphabet to JuggerBaby, in two languages, when it occurs to me that ze responds to only a few Secondary Language commands. Ze doesn’t grasp much of the language itself and it’s because ze doesn’t hear very much of it. I started speaking solely in Secondary Language for all of bath time and ze was uncharacteristically quiet, clearly not able to respond or unsure how to respond affirmatively or negatively. In English, ze is going great guns with the YES YES YES and NO NO NO. In other languages, ze cocks zir head and wanders off, or sits silently.
It triggered a pang, and then a panic. I was immersed in my Secondary Language because my family were immigrants and they knew that I’d learn English just fine at school but it’d be hard to keep in touch with our culture if we didn’t speak the language everyday. Even now, living where we are, I so rarely have anyone to speak to in Secondary Language that it feels like a foreign language to me. I don’t naturally switch like I once did. This was Mom’s legacy – it was her labor of love to make sure I could read and write simple and basic words, and puzzle out the rest based on my speaking fluency. And now I’m losing much of that. And I feel like I’m losing her again. And like JuggerBaby is losing zir grandma in yet another way.
I was taught to read and write and speak because none of my grandparents spoke English. They were all in their 70s when they immigrated, an entirely new language wasn’t happening. But this next generation? They’re being raised by parents one step removed from the old culture and customs. We grew up exposed to it, but we didn’t carry on with it. And so, particularly without grandparents to ground us all in the efforts of keeping that language and cultural memory close, it feels like a struggle just to hold on to what we have. It’s slipping away.
***
There’s a white coat tucked in the back of my closet. I’ve never worn it. I never will wear it. It’s a massive thing that I’d never fit, even when pregnant.
That should be reason enough for it to be removed in this clearing up project.
Why hasn’t it been? Because of Mom. She bought it for me from a yard sale when she was in the throes of dementia. Just like she had done when I was a kid.
She was trying so hard to be Mom again, to take care of me when she couldn’t even manage to get through the day in her own mind. She was trying to find her way back to me, maybe subconsciously reminding me how she once provided for me instead of the other way around. I remember accepting it from her, knowing I’d never wear it, knowing she just wanted to be my mom again, bleeding inside from anger at losing her and not knowing how to help either of us.
It’s this last gift and remnant of her thinking of me, this physical symbol of my not being a better daughter when she needed me most. And I need to clear out everything that’s not useful but with this one coat, I keep getting ambushed by this towering wall of guilt.
She’s been gone five years this month. I still don’t know what to do with it.