Author: Kelly

You know, in the last week, I think I’ve talked more about sex with my family – with my sister and my father, and some assorted uncles and an aunt – than I have, uh, ever. We’ve talked about who we thought would get knocked up outside of marriage, some of our more repressed/naive relatives, and just traded general jokes. We’ve watched shows that heavily feature sex – like tonight’s Private Practice – without blinking, or cracking up hysterically to the Samantha Who storyline about her not remembering sex/being an amnesiac virgin.

In fact, I was sitting on the floor that night, and Dad told me a story about a safe sex advertisement featuring buildings “covered with rubbers” – and my first thought was not “augh Dad’s talking to me about sex” but was to crack up at how quaint “rubbers” as a term was.

Now granted, this was the evening Mom’d passed away, and we were still coping with it in our own ways, so maybe that was an anomaly… except it’s continued, in talking about relatives, or other TV shows. (The only comment on Private Practice was my sister saying it was more soap opera-y tonight, and me commenting that she should shush so I can admire Taye Diggs’s bare chest in proper reverence..)

I’m not sure if we’re just shellshocked and reacting, or if this is the way we normally are and we were all more prudish around Mom. I think I like this new family dynamic, though – it’s freeing. If, admittedly, sort of strange.

Mom’s funeral was yesterday. It was rough. However, it was a lot rougher to have the house invaded by all of my relatives, many of whom I haven’t seen for 16 years – and some I’ve never met.

I am not, by any means, a people person – something I freely admit. If you want the hostess with the mostess for a bunch of strangers, go to my sister. You give me more than about 6-10 people I don’t know, and I’m going to find the nearest corner to hide in (something I bonded with T.C. over at ASBH 2006, actually, and we commiserated on at ASBH 2007). Filling my house with that many strangers, and then adding on everyone at the funeral – and there were easily 75-80 people there, most of whom I’d met once, if at all… and I was ready to throw the towel in before we even started the service.

The relatives began melting away toda – some I was ready to show the door, and some I genuinely wish could have stayed longer. A couple of my uncle’s were more like older brothers for a couple of years of my life, and it was nice to see them again, and meet my cousins. (The little girl takes after me in a lot of ways, and she and I really hit it off – I’m going to do my best to keep in touch with her; she helped me with all the decorating for the funeral, and did so with wonderful glee…)

At this point, only one maternal uncle is in the house, and my dad’s older brother and his wife. They’re all quiet, and we’ve just been idly napping and chitchatting all day. We just finished watching The Next Iron Chef (booyah! I so won – always trust your gut instinct! Never second guess!), which was full of laughter and teasing. And it occurred to me that for a lot of people, a funeral is a single day affair, maybe a few hours. I’ve been very lucky, the funerals I’ve been involved in, that they have been multi-day affairs that allow for creating new, happy memories. They’re bittersweet, because they’re of course brought on by the death of a loved one, and in this particular case, one of the most beloved. But as I was climbing the stairs, I thought about how glad I was to not have my last memories of my maternal uncles be that of an angry teenager, that I was able to teach my young cousin about how to create glitter suspensions, or just sit around and tease my dad with his brothers.

A lot of stories have been told, and a lot of new, better memories created. I think, in the end, Mom would have approved.

Mother: A Cradle to Hold Me
by Maya Angelou, modified by Kelly Hills
Read at my mother’s funeral
10 November 2007

It is true
I was created in you.
It is also true
That you were created for me.
I owned your voice.
It was shaped and tuned to soothe me.
Your arms were molded
Into a cradle to hold me, to rock me.
The scent of your body was the air
Perfumed for me to breathe.

Mother,
During those early, dearest days
I did not dream that you had
A larger life which included me,
Among your other concerns,
For I had a life
Which was only you.

Time passed steadily and drew us apart.
I was unwilling.
I feared if I let you go
You would leave me eternally.
You smiled at my fears, saying
I could not stay in your lap forever
That one day you would have to stand

And where would I be?
You smiled again.
I did not.
Without warning you left me,
But you returned immediately.
You left again and returned,
I admit, quickly.
But relief did not rest with me easily.
You left again, but again returned.
You left again, but again returned.
Each time you reentered my world
You brought assurance.
Slowly I gained confidence.

You thought you knew me,
But I did know you,
You thought you were watching me,
But I did hold you securely in my sight,
Recording every movement,
Memorizing you smiles, tracing your frowns.
In your absence
I rehearsed you,
The way you had of singing
On a breeze,
While a sob lay
At the root of your song.

The way you posed your head
So that the light could caress your face
When you put your fingers on my hand
And your hand on my arm,
I was blessed with a sense of health,
Of strength and very good fortune.

You were always
The heart of happiness to me,
Bringing nougats of glee,
Sweets of open laughter.

I loved you even during the years
When you knew nothing
And I knew everything, I loved you still.
Condescendingly of course,
From my high perch
Of teenage wisdom.
I spoke sharply to you, often
Because you were slow to understand.
I grew older and
Was stunned to find
How much knowledge you had gleaned.
And so quickly.

Mother, I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
On this day
When you are being remembered,
Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.

I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire, and to love.

I thank you, Mommy.
I love you.
I miss you.