The platter was lovely. It was a vintage looking black and white interpretation of a sea turtle on melamine. The species was a Kemp’s Ridley. Despite being the rarest and most endangered sea turtle in the world, it is the most common turtle to see stranded on the beaches of Cape Cod.

Mom’s birthday was coming up, and the platter would be great to use when we gather by her pool. If Mom were alive that is. I made it all the way to the cashier with credit card in hand before I remembered Mom was dead. I put the platter back, left the Barnstable gift shop, and crumpled on a nearby bench. In that moment, I felt my attachment to her ripped from my body like Velcro. My hooks separating from her barbs. My un-tethering becoming a stranding of my own.

And I cried, thirteen days late. Curiously, I wasn’t particularly sad. It was more an awareness of being parent-less. It felt like a lack of accountability, this absence of people that I wanted to show that I could be OK in spite of it all. My father died while I was in college, a long excruciatingly sad death from metastatic cancer that left me sympathetic for a man I loved to hate. Sympathy is neither sadness nor sorrow. Mom’s death, following years of therapy and the hard work of recovery, was no less detached. I was not yet ready to let go of resentment and create space for grief.

Mom collected turtles. It didn’t matter what kind, so it was a quirky collection of sea turtles, box turtles, realistic turtles, and cartoonish turtles. Whether purchased or gifted, they all found their way to her house or garden. My favorite was a young girl riding the back of a box turtle. As a child, I liked to pretend it was me. In that fairy land where children rode the backs of turtles, I could imagine this gentle, slow, and steady chelonian as my friend.

Seventeen days prior we had been in Hospice in Columbia, South Carolina, the city of my birth. Two weeks before that I had given my sister Marcie a break from caring for Mom so she could go to the beach with friends. I traveled from Virginia to oversee her discharge from what seemed like her hundredth hospital stay and then move her into her new assisted living apartment.

I worked so hard making sure Mom was alright to leave alone in her new digs. What I didn’t know then was that she was actively dying. She had all the signs. She was withdrawn, sleeping often, restless when awake, and barely eating. I was too focused on making sure she was stable so I could leave that I missed them all. I will forever regret the not-knowing. I would have tried to just love her. I would have held her.

I had only been home a few days when Marcie called me to come back. Mom was in the ER and her organs were shutting down. I drove the six-hour trip in five. When I entered her cubicle, she looked at me and said, “What are you doing back here?” I told her I had forgotten to buy boiled peanuts. She chuckled, but then gagged from the nausea. They gave her a barbiturate and she fell asleep. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.

Mom was moved to the in-hospital Hospice Wing. Exiting the elevator, you were greeted by the soft, quiet colors of compassion. The woman in the bed did not seem like my mother. Her mouth was slightly open, and I wanted to fix that for her. She would be embarrassed. My oldest sister Laura drove up from Florida. While in the room with her alone, Mom woke briefly and told her she was dying. The idea that she knew was heartbreaking.

And so, the living wake began. There were the quiet comings and goings of friends, church people, and cousins coming from out of town, showing up to say goodbye. Every movement was a tiptoe, every word a whisper.

We decided we would take turns spending the night in Mom’s room. I was staying in Mom’s new apartment, Marcie stayed at her home and Laura was in a hotel. In retrospect, it seems odd that we didn’t stay somewhere together. Sometimes it feels like we are Sisters with a small s.

I spent my time away from the hospital looking for old photos to share with the cousins. In my search I stumbled upon mom’s old writings. There were short stories and poetry, none of them very good, but uniquely her own. On my night, I took it all to her room. Late at night, when most people were sleeping, I started reading to her. I read about heartache, nature, grief, love, relationships, pride, and joy. It was a literary portal into her existence. There was a sprinkling of scandal, and I had the overall sense that I knew my mother not at all. I had spent most of my adult life disliking my angry, cynical mother. Who was this other person, and could I have liked her more? Mom had slipped into some degree of unconsciousness, but I felt like maybe she could still hear me. Occasionally she would make a little moan. So, I read on, wanting her to know that someone appreciated what it took to get those words to the page.

I had to go home. Laura also had to leave. We both had businesses and mine suffered a huge loss of employees in my absence. The doctor said it could be one hour or one week. I didn’t have another week. Mom died on my drive home. I am neither clairvoyant nor have psychic gifts but the words that left my mouth when I picked up the call from Marcie was, “I know.” Marcie was not in the room when Mom took her last breath. She had gone to get something to eat. Mom died alone, and while we all took comfort in Hospice saying that many patients seem to wait until they are alone to die, we all felt sad that no one was there. A small part of me also felt she had done it on purpose. One last dig to make us feel like we hadn’t done enough. Apparently, cynicism can be inherited.

Mom left instructions. She did not want a funeral and she wanted her body donated to the Medical University. Friends and relatives balked, but in the moment, we were relieved not to have to go through the death rituals. The selection of coffin, music, flowers, and the Southern tradition of the endless receiving line. Casseroles and deviled eggs, and hugs from women who smelled like moth balls. But as the days moved forward it felt more like an unfinished poem, one that simply stopped mid thought.

I had thrown myself back into my drowning business and I was exhausted. Months previously I had planned a road trip to visit all the small towns of Cape Cod. I closed my restaurant for two weeks and ran away from home.

As I sat on that bench in Barnstable, I tried to write a new ending to that unfinished poem. One where suffering was relieved, dreams fulfilled, and Mom was happy. I am not a Christian, so took no comfort in the God of my mom’s understanding. Instead, I searched my mind for one truly happy memory. And it was there as if it was waiting for me.

I was having a slumber party for perhaps my ninth birthday. I have a photograph of that party somewhere, bedraggled girls surrounding a birthday cake with candles. I am in orange pajamas with an unfortunate shag haircut and missing front tooth. After the cake and ice cream we all settled in sleeping bags on the floor. Mom cut out all the lights, lit a candle, and took her seat on the edge of the big recliner. We were rapt as she began a tale of a man in a rowboat, a moss drenched bayou, and a water moccasin. I can’t remember the details, but it was rich and terrifying and in that moment I was so proud she was my Mom. I ADORED her. On that worn wooden bench my heart thawed, my tears dried, and while I knew I was not done forgiving, at least I had made room for the process.

Eventually, mom’s remains were returned to us. My sisters, one husband, and all the children and grandchildren made a pilgrimage to Mom’s favorite place, Pawleys Island. It was a joyous, raucous, often irreverent, and sometimes drunken gathering. Mom would have loved it. We told Nana stories and left her ashes in the ocean. We finished the poem together and in it she swims with turtles.

-Stephanie Dudley

Stephanie Dudley is an unpublished, embryonic author, who at the urging of her writing teacher is exploring avenues for publication. She has written hundreds of essays and trends toward Creative Nonfiction. After retiring from restaurant ownership, she has become an avid hiker and waterfall junkie, chasing them all over the US and beyond with her boxer, Lucy. Time has allowed her to appreciate the value of processing trauma and healing through the written word. Stephanie regularly enjoys the company of her children and grandchildren, fellow crones, Valkyrie, and other adventurers.