A Short Story About my Mother

Turning grief into art to help myself mourn, 3 years after losing my mother to cancer.

I don’t remember where I was going to or coming from, but I do remember that I was on a plane when I wrote this. It seems some of my most resonant thoughts about my mother find me when I’m thousands of feet in the air—maybe the [soul] reception is better up there.

The Notes app on my iPhone tells me that it was a Wednesday in December in 2017. It’s been three years now since she passed, and this time there’s no special occasion or important date to serve as a catalyst. This was just the ebb and flow that is grief, taking its turn as one or the other. Looking back at it now, it’s interesting to me how these two pieces serve as retrospectives for my grief process over time. I’m at a very different place now, as my post later today will reveal, but revisiting these pieces has certainly been intriguing, to say the least. And intriguing is much better than painful.

What’s particularly special about this one is that my wife absolutely loves it as a story. She has been working to get it produced as a covert children’s book on the subject of grief. Her bigger dream is to have it turned into an animated short film. I’m not so sure about that, but if after you read it, you think it has legs as either, consider becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack to help it along.

(Recommended listening: this particular rendition of Debussy’s Clair de Lune, as performed by Michael Charles Clark—a piece I’ve claimed as my mother’s song, as I can hear her in it)

December 13th, 2017

“Let me tell you a story about my mother…”

There once was a boy, born of the sea. Her crowned jewel, the sea loved the boy. She clothed him with her waves and adorned him with her crest. She sent him into the world and proclaimed to the land, "Look before you to my pride and joy. This is my son, with whom my love travels."

Wherever the boy traveled, springs formed in his footsteps. Pastures grew green and flowers bloomed full and colorful. The sea breeze followed in the boy's wake, carrying seeds in its folds, spreading life to and fro. The very ground itself revered the boy, for it knew he would bring fruitfulness and prosperity. The love of the sea flowed through him, and the boy and sea were happy.

Each season, after he had traveled the land giving life to everything he could, the boy would return to the sea to tell her what he had done. The sea would listen to the boy speak of his journeys throughout the land and marvel at his accomplishments. The boy honored the sea with his deeds, and the sea swelled with pride at every word the boy spoke. When it came time for the boy to start his journey anew, the sea would hug him close and say, "My love will travel with you."

For many seasons, the boy would travel the land and return to the sea, each journey longer and more fruitful than the last. One season, the boy set out to travel the land for far longer than he ever had before, but the sun was very hot that season. The sun bore down on the boy, making his journey harsh, but the land had come to love the boy. Trees sprouted up from the ground and gave him shade. The rocks hollowed themselves and gave him shelter. The sun was unrelenting, but the land helped the boy, and he pressed on. Despite the heat, the boy was still very fruitful that season, and he couldn't wait to tell the sea of his adventure.

But when the boy returned, the sea was nowhere to be found. He searched and searched, but it did him no good. The boy lifted his hand to block the sun—then he realized with horror what had happened. It was the sun. The sun, and its unrelenting gaze, had evaporated the sea. The boy fell to his knees and cried out, "How could this have happened!? The sea is gone forever. How am I to spread joy and life when I have lost mine?" The boy cried and cried as he walked back to the shore.

A terrible drought came upon the world. The boy could not travel anymore, and the land, as much as it tried, could not help him. No clouds came. No rain fell. The boy longed for the sea and was sad. He had no more tears left to shed. Without the help of the boy, the green pastures began to brown, and the springs dried up. The world itself seemed to be at its end.

One night, the boy lay in a field near the shore, fast asleep. He dreamed of his past journeys and his time with the sea. He dreamed of her breeze and how it followed him wherever he went. He dreamed of her reassuring caress and her unyielding joy. He dreamed of the sun and how it stole the sea from him, and the boy became terribly sad. But then the boy dreamed something else. He dreamed of himself, one born of the sea. He dreamed of being clothed in her waves and adorned with her crest. He dreamed of the things the sea spoke to the land when she sent him forth. He dreamed of the sea's love for him and what his purpose was: to give life to others as the sea had given life to him.

When the boy awoke, the area around him was green and vibrant. He could smell the perfume of flowers and a freshness in the air. He looked for her, but the sea was not there. The boy lay back down, saddened by the painful sight of the parched ground, when suddenly he heard a voice in his ear, very faint but clear and familiar.

"My love will travel with you."

The boy closed his eyes and smiled. It was the dew.