The Astronomy of Mom

My mother is my touchstone. The comforting and constant center of gravity upon which my life has always revolved.



At times my orbit is distant and somewhat cold, a Plutonian rotation set off by some ill-founded slight against my too thin for this family skin. Other times it’s as close and intense as mercury is to the sun. Over involved and full of fire, free with opinions on issues that don’t affect my daily life, but that I’m bound to weigh in on. Normally it’s akin to earth’s familiar progress – close enough to bask in the warm glow of rays, yet far enough to maintain an independent keel.

I’m the one that moved away. Given the freedom to go by the one who would never hold us back, yet always wants to keep us safe. I have never regretted the choice I’ve made to live life just a bit apart. But I do often wish the miles were fewer, the journey shorter, the homecoming more routine.

My mom has lung cancer. And my orbit has gone awry.

Not yet knowing the full picture, I founder in my habitual but familiar process of mixing optimism and (il)logic. I find myself trying to hold on dearly to my childhood certainty that my parents will always be there, no matter how far I venture or how many years I add to my own life. I avoid statistics. I cry at the hallmark store. I try to offer encouraging words, holding back my own fears and selfish needs. I listen to stories of recovery, offered as a comfort by friends. I pray in my own fashion, calling on angels and energy to heal and protect.

I hope.