I loved my mother beyond my own comprehension. She had me when she was 19 years old, and even at that young age she was stalwart enough to keep and care for me. When we were left by my Father, I think that strengthened her resolve to be a good mother to me.

We were very close especially when I was a kid, back before I was encumbered with education and the cerebral qualities of adulthood. That's when I could hold her hand without feeling self-conscious, or being mistaken for her boyfriend as I was one day in the laundromat — she looking so young for her age. But as I got older, even though that closeness seemed to subside, it did not go away, it just dipped below the horizon like a sunset, when the sun continues to warm the earth from the other side. Even though we weren't in the habit of speaking every day recently, it meant everything to know that I would see her again no matter what. Just the thought of the regular visits were totally life-sustaining for me.

It doesn't seem possible or correct that I would rely on someone so much for sustenance and support and yet never completely understand how or why.

But when I think about the things that mean the most to me, I think about things I need without a doubt, for instance, my own heart. That is, my physical heart beating inside my chest — pumping oxygen to my arms, legs and fingertips and head. What do I understand about how it really works? How often am I walking around saying: "Thank you, heart, for beating, like you always do. I am indebted to you heart, please, please, don't stop, keep up the good work!"

I may not know how my mother operated anymore than a vital organ, but I can feel it now that she's not there. We were so much the same in many ways that she was internal to me, not understood, but felt deeply, on the deepest level. She was my heart, kept my blood flowing, even in my sleep under my skin and bones. And living without that seems impossible...

In the days after her death I've considered where my mother might be now, what has become of her.

Science dictates that time and space are one and the same. Just as all space exists, so does all time, all at once, finished and complete. We, the living, are fixed in a moment and place, inching very slowly forward toward the end. We toil through our daily lives conflicted with ourselves and nature, grasping for truth, hiding our lies and worrying our petty concerns. We fight to know, to be known, to become, to create, to save ourselves and to destroy others.

That is life. And if life is war, death is peace.

My mother was driven to fight every day of her life. She fought her way through adolescence, in high school befriending a prison inmate and other unsavory types to "save them." Fought her parents — once in a family dispute packing her bags and running away down the rail-road tracks, only to be dragged back by her father. Fought to care for me when I was born. Fought to become a Linewoman in a male-dominated profession. Fought to earn her law degree in Labor Relations to stand the cause of workers rights. Fought to work her way up through the ranks of competitive canoeing to win the women's nationals masters canoe championship 5 consecutive years.

But she is now finished with her struggle, she is now complete. She has reached the end and is now one with the whole. She is every day, every moment, everywhere, everything. She has expanded into the atmosphere of totality and completeness.

As her only son, I was a part of her, and as she rises above, I feel that part of me lifted up. In some moments a feeling of lightness overcomes me.

My mother's life and death are unexplainable to me, but as real as the hand I held and as powerful as the universe I feel pulling at me.

*** *** ***

Days before my mother died, I purchased an antique Eames-style desk chair on Ebay. Shipping arrangements from London had already been arranged. It arrived with a note from the shipper designed to make the chair appear a gift in order to avoid import duty fees.

The note read:

Lover,
We saw this in Spain and thought of you. Congratulations again! And when will you be paying a visit to sunny London?

Below is my response to the seller:

Kareen,

I am sitting in the chair as I write to you. It's as comfortable and unique as I had imagined. It took an afternoon of trips to Customs, Shipco and a storage facility in the far reaches of Queens with more pay-offs for unknown reasons to finally get it into the back of a cab and return home. But now I believe this was destined.

My mother took her life just before your last e-mail to me. She was an extremely healthy, high achieving, humble 55 year-old with a great husband, mother for whom she cared every day, and me, her only son. She had dozens of friends who all loved her. She recently suffered depression for unknown reasons and, impetuous as she could be, acted quickly.

It would not be like me to burden you, a relative stranger from overseas, with this information, except... Many years ago I bought another antique desk chair and gave it to my mother. She was sitting in it writing a relatively normal-sounding e-mail to a friend the last hours of her life. I feel the chair you have sent me is somehow a gift back from my mother.

I don't have a particular fetish for antique chairs, and I'm consistently practical-minded, so I was confounded by my own actions after I bid in your auction. It was atypical for me, but after recent events, the meaning struck me. It seems a higher power was guiding my actions to receive the inevitable, tragic future.

Thank you for your letter, and thank you for the conduit from heaven.

Jason