Musing

[written and published from Calgary]

6C/42F, gloomy skies, showers forecast; Gusta and I found the walk around the lagoon boring in the dark as a stiff NW wind made our eyes water

yesterday, I wrote some good words, I did errands, I cooked good food (SB came over to help me attack a prime rib roast with all the trimmings but we failed to make more than a dent), I did some reading, I ate too much, I thought too much; this morning I’ve written some good words, I had some good coffee; next I’ll read the paper, then head off in a while for a visit and some coffee with WK and I’ll have lunch with my dad

maybe her purpose was 'not to set a great example' so I could see futility in her life, in her ways, in her personality . . . if only . . . I could live a more purposeful life, not just to see life looking back from the end without the regrets she had but to be looking forward and backward and all around to see what I can see, learn what I can learn, teach what I can teach, give what I can give; if only

what is the point of life, of death, of remembrance, of remembering?

on any given day I think our answers, mine anyway, health and what is going on in our lives impact our answers, but whose life do we speculate about – our own, life in general or someone specific - what are we living for, what are we dying for, what are we willing to live for, what are willing to die for; or in my case today, what was her purpose, what did I learn?

8 yrs ago this morning Augusta Arlena Kolke died . . the last breath of worn out lungs, the last steps of a worn out body, the last minutes of a well worn life; then gone – from feisty to silent and restful; her life gone, our testy relationship over, if only

sometimes a memory creeps into my day, sometime a calendar reminder like this one, recollections of the 47 yrs. I knew her; reminder that COPD is a long slow way to have your breath taken away . . but, if only she had been a different kind of person; mine is not a complaint about the parts and traits of hers that influence who I am . . for most of my life I have been in control of that so I have no unresolved angst there (he says confidently); what I wished for as a child is what I miss . . . if only; she wasn’t someone I liked lots, but hers was not a path I got to choose, it was her life - not mine to live; like most boys the rejection of everything connected with our mothers somewhere between 11-14 is common; for most a temporary thing, a phase – for me it began at 11 and should be over soon . . if only

I try to remember happy times instead of fights, instead of arguments, instead of painful moments - I see my dad doing this more easily than I; he takes a kinder view, a gentler view; it was 8 yrs ago but sipping coffee this morning, re-reading her eulogy last night leaves me so much clearer - you see, I had these expectations; as I am sure all kids do, I had expectations of what my mother would be like, how she would treat me, how she would show me more, show me this and show me that – how she would have and could have been so very different . . if only she had tried, if only she knew how, if only she knew what people wanted of her . . me, my dad, the world . . we all had our expectations, we all had our disappointments – the loss of those expectations was probably harder to let go of than anything else; a corpse, a container for ashes, a service good-bye . . all so final, all so crisply done and gone, if only

if only we could change people, but if you think that impossibly hard, try changing someone after they are dead; a futile effort but unavoidable to want to alter the images in the rear-view mirror – to look back on a happier time made of better ingredients, of altered behaviour, of a different person – but then it would have been a different path in every way; each of these thoughts begins with ‘if only’

a life gone - a life lived, hers to live well or to live wastefully, not for me to decide; if only

for my dad, this day gets easier as each year passes – or so it seems to me; he sees his life with her as a segment of his life from which he has moved on; my view is different . . . not sure it is static but feeling clearer now; 8 years is a long good-bye; I’ve done it before, one more time won’t hurt

Mark Kolke
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