This evening I attended a wake for a colleague who lost her husband. Her children are with her, rubbing her back, leaning in to share a private word. The family prays the rosary in Spanish. The repetitions of the prayers are like a chant. When I hug her and kiss her on the cheek, I feel the wetness and taste the salt of her tears. I am very sad. I am stuck in the thought of wife, mother, widow . I think of my own life, and I hear my own thoughts in my head. I am scared, scared of my own worries.
I go back to the here and now. I am comforted and touched by the warmth and love I see from her children. Years of caring and love and teaching as a mother shows itself here. Her sorrow is deep, but the love of her family is deep as well, and it will sustain and heal her.
All of this swims around in my head for the long drive home. I just want to be home. When I walk through my front door, I go to my children and kiss each of them on the head. It’s about the love.
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