No place like home

Last Thursday, for the first time since mom died, I returned to her house.

I didn't realize it, but it was also a month to the day since she died.

I'd seen dad several times since he's dropped by for visits and I've talked to him on the phone many times too.

But I'll admit it -- I was avoiding going back to his house.

The last time I was there was the day mom died. I had to stop by to pick up dad's medication. That was difficult enough.

Last Thursday was worse.

Dad's in Mexico, so I was stopping by to check on the house and pick up the mail.

I opened the door, quickly grabbed the mail key off the hook and walked across the street to the mailbox. One of them was addressed to the "estate of Carol Ballantyne."

I then crossed the street, opened the door and, like I'd done hundreds of times over the last 15 years, took off my shoes and went in.

This time, though, there was nobody home.
 
My mom didn't come around the corner and say "Hi sweetie."

She wasn't on the couch, next to the spot I sat during our visits.

Instead, her remains sat in an urn on a shelf of a massive oak unit she had custom made more than 20 years ago.

She was nowhere and everywhere.

She was in her artwork on the main floor.

She was in her duck, elephant and angel collections.

She was in the new kitchen counters and back splash she barely got to enjoy.

And she was in the dozens of photos of her family, her children and her grandchildren.

I cried so hard I burst a blood vessel under my left eye.

But then I pulled myself together, put both hands on the urn and told her how much I missed her. It doesn't matter that I'm not a believer. I was -- as the head of my medical support team nicely put it -- talking to her memory. He's an atheist, is in his sixties and still talks to his mother's memory.

As I will continue to do.