[Following is an entry from my journal, written earlier this month while in flight from London to the US:]
What is it worth, that “one more time”? The final time, the time that is never enough?
When I left my mother in Idaho last summer, and flew home-not-home to England, I thought I knew and accepted that it might be the final leave-taking. We spent a week dancing around goodbye, filling our time with normalcy and unspoken words and hugs. She was fighting terminal cancer, and I thought I had admitted that reality. I thought I was coming to grips with the distance to come between us, further by far than Idaho to England. The finality.
But here I am, eight months later, ten thousand feet in the air, throwing myself into a mad dash back to her, seeking that one more time. One more smile, one more warm hand clasp, one more look of recognition on her face to store in my heart and memory.
My mother is dying, and one more time is the most precious thing in the world.
[This week, my mother passed away. I don’t know what else to say. Rest in peace, Marie Cecile.]