Just before, and at a cellular level
by Kate Hammer, commercial storyteller
I find I need to imagine what happened, inside my mother’s brain. What happened, that took her from us. This is what I imagine.
Just before, at a cellular level:
The silence when the devastation registers. Our interchange has collapsed.
Without wanting to, I see myself at the brink of each site’s epicentre, hearing the resounding silence that must follow the WORST. All the cuts the silence is a tiny, tinny “oh shit” – a paltry, inadequate phrase because what’s just happened is too enormous, too complex, too enduring for mere words.
Admitting that this is what I see is costly. With the admission comes recrimination. “Those losses were greater than yours. Get over it.” I resist. This isn’t quantitative. An unexpected and irrevocable loss after which I cannot be as I was. A mother is irreplaceable, unique. I was nowhere near the point of thinking my mother might be in jeopardy.