It's been nearly a year since I posted to my blog. A year that, in many ways, I would just as soon forget.

But I can't forget it. So instead, I'll write about it. Because writing is still the best way for me to process the events that shape my life.

Here goes.


Part I: Mom

Mom was 107 and a half years old when she died around 6 a.m. on Feb. 11, 2020. She died in the nursing home where she'd lived the past several years, getting out just in time -- right before COVID-19 began to threaten the lives of elders living in such places. One brother spent the previous day with her. The other stayed until late that evening -- until Mom had reached the point where she could no longer communicate.

Me? I was in London. Had been since Jan. 23, directing my university department's semester-in-London program. I'd put off telling Mom I was going there until I visited her in mid-January. Mom was, after all, a world-class worrier. She surprised me by saying she was excited for me. And she really seemed to mean it. I hope so anyway.

I'd been teaching for about three weeks when I got the news about Mom. So back I flew across the Atlantic, this time headed to Oberlin, Ohio, by way of Toronto, where my flight to Cleveland was canceled because of a snowstorm. I caught a late flight to Columbus and drove a rental car to Oberlin the following day. But that's a story for another post.

We gave Mom a good send-off, my favorite part being Father Charlie's homily at St. Mary's in Elyria, Mom's parish for almost her entire life. He joked about visiting Mom when she was 105 and finding her sitting up in bed reading Thomas Merton. He rolled his eyes. Even he has trouble understanding Merton, he said. He said if Peg Stillwell wasn't in heaven now, the rest of us didn't stand a chance (or words to that effect).

At the cemetery, after Father Charlie concluded his prayers, big brother Fred asked everyone to remain a moment. Then he sang a song in German, one he said he'd tinkered with a bit to suit the occasion: "My mother, my mother," he sang, "fly away."

It was a lovely way to say goodbye.

Fly away, Mom, away from pain and from the anxiety that plagued you for most of your adult life.

Here's hoping you're at peace -- and that you'll bump into Thomas Merton from time to time.