My mother's food is still in the freezer. Some of it I bought on my visit before her death. I so wanted to fatten her up, to see her eat. I felt like a broken record, "You must eat," but she was already leaving, and I knew it in some way. I cried in my bed at night. I reverence now my last hug. She was so small and tender.
Her personal items are here, too, her brush, comb, moisturizer, wallet, photos. They mean so much and I am not the one who can let them go. Will they be here next time I come? We imbue our objects with love. Part of me wants to use her moisturizer, and another part feels it is too sacred. I am not sad, just noticing reverence.
I think of the Catholic church, where upon entering, the fingers dip into holy water, to dab upon ourselves, "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." I feel I am dipped in Holy Water here. I could be bathing in the Ganges, or singing in the trees, or just honoring the temple that I am, the sacred seed and seat.