It’s been 160 days since my dad died. Five months and five days since November 24, 2003. And for 159 days my mom didn’t cry. I saw expressions of grief on her face during the past five months that I wish I’ve never seen. I’ve witnessed her walking around, afraid of going on with her life, of making the wrong decision. She was walking around in a cloud of grief, almost apart from the rest of us.

I am not my mother although I’ve often wished I would cry less than I do. I feel like I’ve done more than my share and shouldn’t I stop sometime soon? It’s not that I cry constantly. It’s those little things that sneak up on me and bring tears to my eyes when everything else seems so normal. Sometimes out of the blue a song will come on the radio, and I’ll be singing along and then THAT line comes, and my voice breaks and I cry. I’ve woken up crying. Or I’ll be looking in our photo album and see an old picture. Or talking to friends and start out saying, “My dad tells me….” and stop because my dad isn’t telling me anything anymore. I no longer get to hear him call his grandchildren his dividends. I wish I didn’t cry as often as I have.

My mom and I have talked about crying, and her not crying. I wished she would cry. I can dry tears, but I can’t do anything to ease that depth of pain I’ve seen on her face. There’s one expression on her face that I saw in the critical care room, as she clung to my dad’s hand. I can’t describe it. Grief. Horror. Pain. Lost love.

My mom called me today and she was crying. Big gulps of tears. And she was alone and hundreds of miles away. And she was crying for the first time since my dad died.

They came and got the van today. The van my parents bought to accomodate my dad in his wheelchair. The van they took their last trips to Arizona in. The van they had retrofitted with a chair lift and a higher roof.

She cried. But I knew it wasn’t about the van. For the past 30 years, my parents have been the type of people who make a decision to go somewhere and they go. Now. What’s taking you so long? They grab everything, but the kitchen sink, make it fit and off they go. Sometimes it’d be a short trip around northern Michigan. Other times it’d be a day trip to visit relatives or attend an auction. But every once in a while it’d be a major trip to somewhere and they’d be gone. They didn’t always give you warning.

Sometimes my mom would call me and tell me they were visiting my sister or aunt when I thought they were in Grayling. When I was younger, Dad would drive and I’d read the map while Mom pointed out the sights. I’d barely lift my nose out of a book long enough to see whatever it was that she was trying to point out to me. But every once in a while I would, and I’d listen to Mom and Dad tell stories of previous trips in the area, or bits of history.

Later, Mom would drive and dad would navigate. In the past few years, Mom has done really well traveling long distances and finding her way home with less and less help from Dad.

We’ve been telling Mom to sell the van since right after Dad died, but she always hesitated. She offered excuses. She didn’t want to be without a vehicle. You can buy another one, we said. A nice car with good gas milage. She didn’t need the gas hog with the power wheelchair lift. But she’d balk.

I think we wore her down, but even though she knew we were probably right, she still didn’t want to lose the van. And now the van’s gone. And temporarily Mom is without a vehicle and she has that traveling itch. She wants to go now. She doesn’t want to be stranded. She plans to get a good used vehicle as soon as possible. She wants her freedom.

“It’s the last thing I had with your Dad,” she told me today.

“I can think of at least five other things you still have,” I replied.

“What?” she said, unconsolable.

“Your children.” She laughed a bit and I wondered why she didn’t consider the house as something she had with Dad. But the house had also undergone recent renovations including a wheelchair ramp, a remodeled bathroom and wider doorways. But Mom and Dad hadn’t been there very long at the end. Between trips to Arizona, Dad was in the hospital. They’d been home less than a month before his last hospitalization.

She talked the other day about staying in Grayling by herself for a while. I don’t know if she will or not. But the tears flowed today and I still have to wait until Saturday before I can give her that hug.

I miss my Mom.