I’ve always loved sunglasses. They’ve always made me feel protected from the outside world. The more character they have, the more I seem to feel that they help keep a cloak of invisibility around me.
Since my mother’s passing, in the whirlwind of clearing things that reminded my father of her in a house that screamed her name and personality, the things I kept of hers were few. It’s funny how emptying a house filled with the memories of someone shortly after they’ve passed can cause you to dissociate the things with the person, in order to cope through the process.
One thing I kept was the car she drove, because my father no longer wanted to see a car without its driver parked in the garage.
When I brought the car home and sold my own, something I’ve struggled to do is to go through it. If you looked, you’d find a glove compartment full of papers. When I looked through the pockets of my mom’s car, I found treats that she kept just for the dog that I gave her. But in the brief rummage I’ve done of the car while driving, I noticed a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses that she’d wear. They have now become one of my prized sunglasses. They remind me of the good and wonderful parts of her that I miss so much—the loud music she played to brighten rainy days, even when no one else wanted to sing or dance along. They make me miss the way she could love life when the days were bright and how she could squeeze you like she’d never let go.
I’ve been wearing her heart-shaped sunglasses, especially on days when I struggle to see the sun come out, and when I’m anything but bright. They are my mask against the world, something that makes me visible when every part of me screams for invisibility. They force me to feel a little braver, even when I feel so alone.
Here’s to feeling my mom’s spirit while wearing her heart shaped sunglasses, even when the memory of her voice fades, and when I wish for one last hug letting me know that everything will be okay.
My Lifestate 