Whenever I visited this house, it always smelled like cookies or pies or whatever Sharon had baking in the oven. The smell alone was so welcoming; it made everyone, including myself, feel at home. Now the smell is gone and has been replaced with a cold, sterile feeling that makes your skin crawl.

The door is slightly ajar, and I find myself standing in the opening just watching her sleep. She’s propped up against a mountain of pillows, in what looks like peaceful slumber, but I know better. This woman, who I found so much strength, in has been reduced to a version of herself that no one should have to face.

So she sleeps. Frail, tried, battered, and defeated, she sleeps.

As quietly as possible, I enter the room and slide into the chair, which sits next to the bed. I would guess it has been Evan’s resting spot for these last few weeks, unable to leave his mother’s side. Tentatively, I reach for her bony hand and lightly lay my head on her legs. I close my eyes and let our silence engulf me, enjoying the few peaceful moments we may never have together again.

“I am so glad you’re here, Cam,” she rasps, her free hand landing in my hair and stroking the tendrils. The sensation prompts me to quickly open my eyes and sit up straight.

“There isn’t anywhere I would rather be, Shar,” I say with a smile.

Sharon begins to adjust her blankets and the pillows surrounding her and I jump up to help her, but she holds a hand up to stop me. “I’m okay, please sit. I want to enjoy this time with you. What little time I have left, I want to feel like a mother again, instead of being mothered.”

I slowly sit back down, watching her closely in case she struggles. “I need you to give me a job, Sharon. Tell me what I can do. I can’t just sit here and do nothing for you,” I tell her, feeling helpless to ease her pain.

Since the day I left her house, I have done nothing but try to help others the way she showed me I could through her example. My friends, who are like my family, look to me to smooth out rough situations, to help. That makes me feel worthy of their love. Being unable to do anything for Sharon, only makes that self-doubt intensify. I need my deeds to reflect my appreciation for her.

“Oh, sweetheart, you being here is what I needed,” she whispers.

I smile, knowing Sharon isn’t going to let me push the issue. “Thank you, Sharon.”

She tilts her head in confusion. “I can fluff my own pillow, hun,” she attempts to jest, but begins to cough, causing her to struggle for air. I grab the cup of water on her nightstand and bring the straw to her lips, encouraging her to drink.

I can see her relief as the cool liquid eases her dry throat. When she’s finished, I place the cup back on the nightstand next to her beloved collection of poetry. The green cover is faded and worn from years of love; the pages earmarked with her selected favorites.

“I see this hasn’t gone far,” I say, laying my hand on the cover and running my fingers along the spine. “I always liked when you read these poems to me.”

“I want you to take that with you today. I know you’ll love those words inside just as much as I have,” she says.

I shake my head adamantly, “No, I can’t do that. These mean so much to you.”

“That’s how I know they will be taken care of; you know the value of those words,” she adds with a faint smile. She hesitates for a second before continuing. “I need to tell you something, Cam.”

My eyebrows furrow.

Tears begin to build in her eyes. “I need to apologize to you,” she finally stammers.

“Apologize to me?” I question. “You have done nothing but be supportive of me, all these years, when you had no reason to be.”

“That’s just it, Campbell. I consider you my daughter. I have been proud of you, sad and happy for you, encouraged you, but I know I failed you.”

I begin to argue, but she cuts me off. “Let me finish,” she demands, her raspy voice barely able to choke out the words. “I had several years and several chances to adopt you and make bringing you into our family legal, but I never did. I was scared of that permanent commitment. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do a good job being a foster parent if I took that on; I wanted to be able to help as many kids as possible. But looking back at everything, I didn’t take the right path, and I’m sorry for that. I should have been your mother.”

Emotion builds behind my eyes and I struggle to breathe past the constriction in my throat. “You didn’t have to make it legal for me to know you care about me. I knew I belonged here,” I tell her.

“Whatever the paperwork said, you belonged here,” she whispers through tears as she places my hand on her heart. “You are loved, Campbell. I’m so thankful you came into my life.”

I nod, unable to speak from the pain that is tearing apart my insides. I squeeze her hands, hoping she feels every ounce of admiration and gratefulness I have for her.

A weight has noticeably been lifted from her. For several minutes, we let the silence hang in the air, both of us settling into the peace of the moment. I slowly flip through the pages of her poetry book, taking note of the highlighted passages, notes in the margins, and a few of her favorites that she insisted I read at different times over the last decade and a half.

“Will you read your poem for me?” she finally asks.

I look up at her, almost surprised at her request. “Just that one? I would be happy to read some of your favorites.”

“I’m getting tired, Campbell. I would like to hear it one more time. I want you to say the words one last time,” she murmurs.

I turn the pages until I reach the poem she has requested and take a deep breath, staring at the words on the page. She made me read this William Wordsworth poem so many times over the years; there really is no need to actually read it. The words are burned into my memory, but I need to keep my eyes and mind distracted. As soon as the first words leave my lips, her eyes close and she relaxes into the rhythm of the poem. My voice trembles through the first few lines until I can find comfort in the words.

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

BESIDE THE SPRINGS OF DOVE,

A MAID WHOM THERE WERE NONE TO PRAISE,

AND VERY FEW TO LOVE.

A VIOLET BY A MOSSY STONE

HALF-HIDDEN FROM THE EYE!

FAIR AS A STAR, WHEN ONLY ONE

IS SHINING IN THE SKY.

SHE LIVED UNKNOWN, AND FEW COULD KNOW

WHEN LUCY CEASED TO BE;

BUT SHE IS IN HER GRAVE, AND OH,

THE DIFFERENCE TO ME!

I recite the final stanza and slowly close the book. My gaze finally rises to see Sharon, peaceful in her bed, no longer struggling to breathe….gone.

For the second time in my life, I’ve lost my mother. I’m just thankful that this time, I had the chance to say goodbye. A sob breaks free and I unleash the tears I have been straining to contain. Barely able to catch my breath, I grip onto the book, rest my head on her legs once again, and let my blended heart spill out.

Campbell

My mind, my heart, screamed for a distraction. I needed something to pull me away from the pain of my loss.

I will be the first to admit I’ve struggled with Sharon’s death. I didn’t tell anyone about it, and allowed Evan and I to grieve alone, together. She had all of the funeral arrangements in place; all we did was make the announcement of her passing. It was a beautiful ceremony with so many people in attendance that there was no more room in the pews at the church. Previous foster children, who now had families of their own, community members, family, all there to celebrate how valuable her life was to them.

I listened as Evan spoke about his mother and how she loved so deeply and was adored by many. I listened and wished it to be over; I wanted to walk out of the church and be able to let that part of my life go. I wanted to not miss her, not love like I had, because I faced the same pain and grief I had when my parents died.