The sadness I feel when I visit my mother is often close to unbearable. But obviously, bear it one must. When I leave I often physically shake, like a wet dog, to shake off the feelings and move into the rest of the day.
But sometimes the feelings stay with me, like a burr on your sock. You know, the kind that you notice because its got a small itch or irritation from the spines going through to the skin. You reach down and try and pull it off, but it won't come, because it and its 15 sibs are stuck tightly in the fabric of your socks. So you pull on them, and pull the sock away from your leg, and it seems better for about 10 minutes, and then that creeping little itchy irritating feeling starts coming back, gradually until you feel like you can't stand it any more.
Some days, that's how I feel after seeing my Mom. I am thinking about how she was, when intact (a very mixed bag indeed). I am thinking about what she is like now and what I can do to make it better for her (probably nothing, other than visit more). Sometimes I am thinking about how furious I am with my brother and sister who have effectively abandoned her. Yes they know that I am here, and I am watching and taking care. And if I wasn't, I believe that they would step in. Except, except.... the long cathartic paragraph I just erased about my sibs was best as a catharsis, and not necessarily entertaining for all of you.
So I write about my mother to honor her. I write about my mother to remove that burr from my sock so I can get on with my day. I write about my mother so that even if you don't know her name, her accomplishments, or just her, what she has done lives just a little bit longer.