Snapshots

Little landmines have not only served as occasions for deep sadness for me. Sometimes -- more and more often, in fact -- they bring a funny memory with them, or a reason to celebrate that Mama's life so informs my own that there are days when her presence is just all around me. They serve not so much as shocks to the systems as nudges from deep in my heart where the goodest stuff dwells, from which I am prompted to remember.

Two recent cases in point. 

On December 17, 2011 I said to my brother, as if in automatic mode, "Today is Grandmama's birthday."  You should understand here that the Keeper of All Family Dates On Her Tongue was our Mama. If you ran across her on one of these days, you'd get your reminder. Anyway, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, my brother responded over his shoulder, "I wondered who would be in charge of reminding us of these things every year."  

It was a good little landmine. It spoke of continuity, and family jokes that will live on  long after all of those of us who know the whole story are gone.

And then this: today was my first time back to the 20th Century Club meeting after my rather spectacular loss of form in November there. We met, as we do nearly every month, at the Blue Willow (which we refer to as "Our Clubhouse"). I'm happy to report that while there was a good crowd today, and I arrived a little late, that the little table at the back of the room where Mama and I always sat with the Moody Women had a couple spaces open.  Mrs. Moody and her daughter and daughter-in-law were there together, and there was another old friend, and that left one empty place after I sat down -- not in my usual chair, though. I never even thought about it -- the table conversation was great, and at one point Mrs. Moody's daughter moved the vase of roses so we could see each other across the table.

I took a picture of the roses on my iPhone to upload to The Path, a social media site I enjoy because it serves as a photojournal for me.  I "checked in" on The Path with this, and it was only later that I fully realized that of all the beautiful settings in that place I could have photographed today, I chose to snap the least remarkable view in the place -- which was right in front of Mama's usual chair. I didn't tear up when I saw this and realized it. I smiled.

Her empty chair held a little bit of understated beauty today -- just like it did when she sat there. 

So I remembered, and I smiled.