The Hardest Lesson
Forget? How can I? This is my first Mother's Day without her.
Eighty-four years, 10 months, one day. Ethel Florence Feagler died the way we all want to: painlessly, silently, swiftly, on her living-room couch while perusing the evening's television listings.
|Pick up Cleveland Magazine's May 2001 issues on newsstands to read Linda Feagler's complete essay, "The Hardest Lesson."|
They're right. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less. The head is rational. The heart is not.
"My mother is dead." It's a phrase that's now at the forefront of my identity, so much so that it takes every ounce of restraint not to blurt out some form of it as part of the greetings and salutations made every day on the job: "Linda Feagler. Cleveland Magazine. My mother died last year. Nice meeting you." The fact circles my psyche like the lone piece of luggage that's always left on the baggage carousel at the airport.
And now, in the Hallmark store.
Replaying the last month of my mother's life which ended abruptly on June 20 leaves me with the same reaction I had after watching Bruce Willis' final scenes in "The Sixth Sense" unfold.
in the cle
12:00 AM EST
May 1, 2001