Hope…like a Butterfly

Hope departed when she died.  I often talk about it being the second time she left me…without saying good-bye.

Throughout her illness, I held out the hope that she might remember.  She rarely did.  Like a butterfly struggling to break free from its cocoon, her memories darted in and out of the sunlight, fought against the darkness of every night, and me.

Still, there was always that chance she might turn her head and recognize that I was part of her life.  Or had been, once.

It was overwhelming, at times a helpless feeling, as I stood  in the shadows of that familiar stranger wanting to become the missing piece of her puzzle of forgetfulness.  A puzzle left scattered, never to be completed.

Hope, for me, departed on June 29th, 2006, on the wings of a butterfly who never looked back, taking with it many desires and needs and dreams.  While hope can carry on its back an entire soul, lifting up sorrow and bringing back joy, it also takes many forms, depending on your perspective; wildly positive or very reserved, almost cautious. Most of us hope for better days, health, happiness or just some release of a heavy burden.  For me, it was the hope that my late mother would remember something beyond the walls of what Alzheimer’s allowed.  I kept hoping she would remember…me.  

 

When she passed away, that hope went along with her.   

 

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Hannah

 

Black, curly madness

waiting at the door,

when she became too excited,

she peed on the floor.

 

Unconditional love and licks

were her claim to fame.

The Festival of Lights

helped create her name.

 

Always ready for treats

and as sly as a fox,

except when she explored

the cat’s litter box.

 

A constant companion

for two little boys,

her bark would sound

with the tiniest noise.

 

With passing years

her sparkle faded,

her steps grew slower

her family waited.

 

One last hug,

loving touches, gentle words,

a final breath

is softly heard.

 

 

Good-bye,  sweet Hannah

When family lives miles apart, it’s so difficult to lend support when hurt comes knocking at their door.  Today was one of those times.  My oldest daughter and her family had to put their beloved dog Hannah to sleep.   Most of us who are animal lovers have been through this and I don’t have to detail how painful it is to say farewell to a special pet.  Aside from early morning phone calls and a sharing of tears, I had nothing else to offer.  Just this silly but heartfelt little poem.

I nicknamed Hannah “Banana Dog” because, for some odd reason, when I visited and called out that name she went absolutely bonkers, running to greet me and tearing through the house like a lunatic before calming down.   I also nicknamed her “CSE” for the times she pillaged the cat’s litter box.  Don’t expect me to explain, use your imagination.

My daughter and her husband got Hannah shortly after they moved to Florida, several years ago.  It was during the holidays, close to Hanukkah, and both were missing their New York families when they happened upon a little black ball of excitement and decided to take her home. 

They gave Hannah a wonderful life and she blessed them in return by being an exceptional dog. 

Except for the litter box fetish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Doorway…

 

Another night of unsettling screams.  Cursewords mixed with prayers spread throughout the darkness.  Any chance of sleep was fleeting, just like the memories escaping from the room down the hall.  It would go on for hours, frenetic energy, fueled by a demon who made her keep searching and held the person she once was…hostage. 

I stood outside the doorway to her room, waiting for that one right moment to enter, hoping she might remember, armed in case she didn’t.  Tonight, my weapon of choice was a plate with oatmeal cookies instead of the graham crackers that she hated.  For a moment, I was a little girl again, clutching a teddy bear for comfort,  wanting, needing a mother who wasn’t there.

 

 

 

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #53: Pitch Perfect

This week your Flicker of Inspiration prompt is to give us a pitch. A perfect pitch. Think of the description on the back of your favorite novel, the words that make you buy that book for your Kindle, the short paragraphs that let you know you MUST read that book.

I worked cookies into my pitch because of the role they played when I was caregiver for my late mother, thus the name of my book, “Another cookie, please!”.   Just about every combative situation (and there were many) could be dealt with by distracting her with a cookie, preferably chocolate chip.  Once, I made the mistake of handing her graham crackers which she promptly flung back at me.   The crackers made it clear across the kitchen table.  She had a good arm.

 

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