I asked my mom to come and help me clean my house.
She is damn good at it.
My house was a disaster after returning from Uganda. Dog hair everywhere, dirt, clutter. I needed help.
I didn't think I could do it myself since I was worried that I would start crying every second.
My mom came over with all of her cleaners to help me out.
We started with the living room because this is the room with Beeno's couch. He could sit anywhere, but he was fond of the loveseat. We called it his couch.
I had finished vacuuming the sofa when I said to my mother, "the reason we go the furniture in this color (a sort of light tannish color) is so that it would match Beeno and we wouldn't notice the hair as much." And then I started to sob.
My mother came over to me and gave me a huge hug. I cannot recall my mother ever having done that. I sobbed into her shoulder. I told her that I missed Beeno. She said that it would be okay and that she missed him too.
My mother suffers from a mental illness. Hindsight tells us that she likely suffered from the mental illness for longer than we would care to think about. She didn't console. In fact, she could be inappropriate and cruel. There was no doubt that she loved us and we her, but in terms of showing that love and affection, well, you might have a better chance converting the Pope to Buddhism.
The rest of that day, I started thinking that perhaps Beeno's death was intended so that my mother could be a mother.
That we could grow closer as daughters should with their mothers. That she would understand my pain and instead of ridiculing me, she would share in it.
And she would console me.
And she did.
Thank you Beeno.
Now, play nice with him Dad.