Going There

Every now and then it happens.  I don’t plan it, really.  Without warning, it just, well, it happens.  You know, kind of like when you’re driving and your mind wanders to other places and other things and suddenly your pulling into your destination and you find yourself confused?  It’s almost as if you were transported from point A to point B with a wave of a wand because you have zero recollection of the time and space between. 

That’s kind of how this goes–I’m not sure how I get there, but once I’m there I settle in for a bit and let the thoughts come.  I go there. . .

What if she were here.  What if she could see?  What if we could talk?  What if things had been different?  What if Mom were still here?

This week, a dear friend reached the 1 year mark of living in a world where her mother isn’t.  In the days leading up to that one year mark (using the word anniversary just doesn’t seem right) we communicated about what it meant–about how it felt.  Maybe that’s how I got here or maybe it was a multitude of other things that happened throughout the last week that always leave this lingering thought in the back of my mind . .

I wish she were here. . .

You see, I don’t let my mind go there very often.  I don’t allow myself to marinate on what I know isn’t possible.  But there are times when I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like to have her in this world again. To have her in my life.

I know that there are some things that only Mom cares about.  You know what I mean?  You know the way that you can call your Mom for no reason at all and talk about nothing at all but make nothing seem like something even if something is really nothing?  (Did you get that?) That’s what Mom’s and daughters do.  Or, at least, that is what my Mom and I did.  We talked about nothing that was something that was everything.

Even now, from time to time, I quiet all the noise around me and inside me just to be sure I can still hear her voice.  I reach deep into the recesses of my memory and I recall the way she said hello or the way she always called me Rah-Rah.  I search for the inflections and the silliness that reached from the phone into my ear and I feel relieved when I can still remember. 

I wonder if I’ll always remember.

Just tonight I said to Chad, I wish she could see our life right now.  I wish she were here to see all that has happened over the last four years.  I wish she knew. . .


I would like her to know that the four year old, often timid, little boy she knew is turning into quite a young man who is FULL of personality and energy and a deeply sensitive spirit. . .

I wish I could tell her that the little two year old toddler that brought her so much joy is turning into a brave and beautiful soul who says little with her mouth, but much with her eyes. . .


And there just are not words to express how much I wish she could know Meadow. . .

I smile when I think about how different our life is now.  I can only image if she were here and called me up the conversation might look like this. . .

Mom:  Hi Rah-Rah, Whatcha doing? (I know she would say this, because that’s how most of our conversations began–we had to talk about nothing that was something that was everything.)
Me: Oh, we’re just getting ready to go to the creek and catch creatures and wade in muddy water and get really dirty.
Mom: No really, what are you doing?

I think that if she popped back into our life today, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.  I’d have to explain to her that losing her changed everything. 

I’d have to explain to her that the bitterness of her loss made me dive more deeply into the sweetness of life.  I’d want to tell her that everything seemed more important, time seemed more precious, and life more beautiful.  I’d want to tell her all about that. . .

And that’s exactly what it comes down to–I wish she were here so I could tell her all about it.  I wish she could see. . .

Losing her strengthened my belief that God takes ashes and turns them into beauty.  No one will ever convince me otherwise.  The experience of loss gave me a profound appreciation for the word “bittersweet”.  Losing my Mom birthed in me something different, something new, and I will forever be thankful for that.  I’ll call that the “sweet”.

More than anything, though, I wish she were here to experience it. . .

. . . and that’s the “bitter” part.

So goes the story of life.

And sometimes I just have to say it.  Out loud.

********************************************

They left me
with your shadow,
saying things like
Life is not fair

& I believed them
for a long time.

But today,
I remembered
the way you laughed
& the heat
of your hand
in mine

& I knew that
life is more fair
than we can
ever imagine
if
we are there to live it
-Story People

  • Barbara Allen - September 12, 2014 - 1:02 pm

    Summer well said and I can relate to each precious word – and I'm sure that you see a little bit of her in each of your children.ReplyCancel

  • M - September 12, 2014 - 1:07 pm

    This is a beautiful post. I lost my Mom when I was 18. Needless to say I understand that longing to know what would she do or say. I graduated college, fell in love, got married, bought my first apartment, had two children, then fell in love again (with photography this time) and took care of her husband (my Dad) right up until his last breath. It has been well over 20 years since I heard her voice and I too stop to remember what she sounded like. Sadly, I'm not sure if the voice I hear is even right. Thank you for your beautiful post … it really hit home…..I will always be a fan of your work and your words……ReplyCancel

    • Summer Kellogg - September 12, 2014 - 3:17 pm

      I am so, so sorry for your loss. For the memories that were never made, the things that should have been, could have been. Thank you for getting it and for understanding. I always appreciate when I see an "M" pop up–thank you for walking this journey. . . ReplyCancel

  • Katy - September 12, 2014 - 1:11 pm

    Oh Summer, tears after that post. I wish she were here too! She would be so proud. Hugs my friend…ReplyCancel

  • Ky | TwoPretzels - September 12, 2014 - 2:47 pm

    It's funny, I started copying the lines that you wrote that resonated with me… one after another… and then another. And then I realized I copied the majority of this post.

    You'd talk about nothing which was something that was everything. Oh Summer, AMEN.

    It's so true. I don't know yet how to deal with that void.

    I've felt that there's Kylee Before and there's Kylee AFTER. I see that it's similar in your life, too: There's Summer Before and there's Summer After.

    These are just words… but your strength to turn each day into a moment where preciousness and life and the little things are celebrated has been so inspiring to me. I know we all have bad days; but it's so obvious, so clear, that you've allowed the beauty to come from the ashes.

    I have no doubt that your Mom would be in **awe** of you. Of how you've grown. And I believe in my heart that you wouldn't even have to explain how you've changed, how you play in creeks now… she's been watching. She's seen it. And she loves it and you. And Charlie. And Chanelle. And Meadow, too.

    I'm babbling.

    I wish you could her her voice one more time. I wish you could have one more conversation about nothing and anything and everything. I wish she could come over for dinner. I'm so sorry.

    I love you. I'm proud of you.ReplyCancel

    • Summer Kellogg - September 12, 2014 - 3:21 pm

      Oh Kylee. How I have thought of you this week. Prayed for you. Celebrated as you walked through it so bravely.

      Thank you for these words and for being such a support through this journey.

      I'm so sorry that you understand so well. . . ReplyCancel

  • Anonymous - September 12, 2014 - 3:23 pm

    Friend – I wish she could see, too. I wish she could be there for you to call and for you to talk about nothing that was something that was everything. I know for sure that she couldn't have described it better herself. I too wish she were here. I know she'd admire and brag about the mother and friend and photographer and individual. I'm so sorry she's not here, Sumo. I am.
    Love, Miss ReplyCancel

  • Katie - September 12, 2014 - 10:10 pm

    Maybe the physical, "i-can-touch-you-you-can-touch-me" part of your momma isn't here, but the beautiful part is that she IS there with you: she's in the boldness of your boy, the beautiful eyes of your first girl and she is everywhere in Meadow. She's in the wind and the sunsets, the crickets chirping and the first snowflakes of the year. Your momma is everything beautiful and good and oh, so incredible! that makes up this beautiful world. Yes, we lose the physical of those we love more than Life itself, but they come back and surround us and wrap us up in their special presence. Believe that, Summer. Thinking of you this weekend.ReplyCancel

  • Karen, Brian and Lucy - September 14, 2014 - 8:42 pm

    So beautifully said Summer. And for those of us who have been through it–unfortunately–we know exactly how you feel. I still pause sometimes to hear my mom's voice too. I still can hear it–it has been almost 4 years. Thank you for sharing, and for your (always stunning) photography. Your mom is so proud.ReplyCancel

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