|I started my One Hundred Days Of Norma with this photo.|
On this last day of my One Hundred Days of Norma, I would like to discuss a topic that caused a minor marital Mexican standoff.
I recently had a conversation with my sensible husband regarding something I really wanted. I won't mention the object of my desire, but let's just say that it's bigger than a pair of diamond earrings but smaller than a German sports car. Being fairly agile in the area of mental gymnastics, I thought I proved that what I wanted was something that I needed.
But my logic was skewed. Instead of displaying sharp reasoning skills, I had a Daffy Duck moment a la "Fool Coverage," producing a stampede of wild elephants--and one baby zebra-- during a hailstorm between 3:55 and 4:00 PM on the Fourth of July, just to say that I do, indeed, need this thing rather than simply want it. I should have just argued that wanting something should be reason enough to have it, and that's that.
Of course, we don't always get what we want, which means, no, I am not getting my coveted thing. Well, not now, anyway. (If you are reading this, Dave: I have no intention of letting up!)
Want versus need. It's something we always encounter in life.
When I began writing/venting after my Mom passed away, I needed to get past the grief and get on with my life. But as time went on, I realized that this need was an impossible one, that the grief never completely goes away. The hole she left will never fill up, no matter what I put in it. And I've heard it from many of my friends who have lost a loved one: you never forget or stop missing them. The hurt becomes a familiar face and you welcome it into your life. You greet it whenever it stops by for a visit, and you wave goodbye when it leaves knowing it will come back again.
So now I'm learning to want rather than need. I want to remember my Mom and all the ways she shaped and touched my life. I want to remember her kooky laugh, her silly mannerisms, the way she would tell me things with a sideways glance or slight frown, or the sounds she would make when words failed her.
I want to remember the last conversation we had and how we had the foresight of telling each other "I love you." I want to remember the way she felt when I last hugged her, and the way she smelled when I last kissed her. I want to hold on to every last memory of her as best I can and move forward.
I've reached the end of my One Hundred Days of Norma, but I'm not finished yet. I still want--I'll forever want--to share a good story about my Mom. But now I will take my time and get there when I'm ready.
This is the finish line for this self-assigned period. The next one has no ending.