Soul Balms

Before I died, mommy was always telling me that children should be seen and not heard.

My proclivity for laughter and insatiable curiosity in the nine years leading up to my departure from the land of the living, prohibited this proverb from sprouting wings and becoming a reality in her day-to-day. But her dedication to the notion deserves an honorable mention, nonetheless.

The spirit is eternal. If you believe nothing else, believe that. My mortality gave up and ran out of steam two years ago next week, but my zest? It permeates the barrier between the living and the dead.

I inhabit mama on her bad days. I lift the weight of the world from her head and heart with a strength that only a nine-year-old spirit can muster.

Now, more than ever, I know she wishes she could hear my voice, my laugh, my relentless inquiries into the wonders of the world. When that longing liquifies and escapes her eyes,

I reach inside my toolbox of soul balms and lavish her as is fitting: a good night’s sleep, a tucked away memory, a snuggle or a kiss on the cheek.

I cradle her in the afterlife as she cradled me in life. In death, I have gained a true understanding of faith:

we do not have to be seen to be heard and we do not have to be heard to be felt.