Grief sucks. At the moment, it’s sucking the life and joy out of me. I am struggling.

My mother died on October 10. She was very old, 96, and had been in poor and failing health for several years. She was ready to go. I thought I was ready too—ready for her to be released from the frail, diminishing shell she inhabited. image.png

I wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t right, either.

Most days, I go about my busy life without dwelling on it. There are memorial events to plan, people to contact, business and a farm to keep running. And then, like last night, it hits me again: she is gone. My mother. The woman who raised me, shaped me, loved me in all her complicated ways, will never be back. She will never again be who she was.

And suddenly I start to cry, a heavy dull ache swelling up until it threatens to choke me.

Today, I feel… depressed, I guess, is the only word that fits. And I don’t like it.

Tomorrow I leave for the United States, flying first from Panama to Atlanta, then driving on to NC. Friends and family are traveling from all directions—Europe, the UK, California, the East Coast, and Panama—to honor and remember Virginia, aka Mom, Grandma Ginnie. People from the small mountain town where she lived for fifty years, where she taught kindergarten for thirty, will fill the lovely Episcopal church. They will sing the hymns she loved, recite the prayers she cherished, and then gather to eat, drink, and share the stories, laughter, and tears that come from remembering a long, well-lived life.

I am dreading it.

I have to give the eulogy and, while I’m not someone who suffers from stage fright, this feels so big—so vast—to find words that come from the heart and that do justice to her. I don’t know if I can do it.

But I am my mother’s daughter. She would expect me to give it my best. I will try.

I have so much to be grateful for. My coffee farm on the side of a Panama mountain, looking out to the sea, is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived. And my wife, Dianne, and I just celebrated our tenth anniversary (19 years together). She is the most solid, loyal, fierce, beautiful partner I could imagine—my anchor in every storm.

In some ways, she is like my mother: determined, curious, generous, intelligent.

But she isn’t my mother. My mother is dead and will not be coming back. It sucks.

Author’s Note

This is part of Behind the Scenes , my ongoing blog about writing, living in Panama, coffee farming, feminism, queer life, and the stories—messy and luminous—that shape who we are. Thank you for reading, witnessing, and walking alongside me.

If you’d like to read more