“I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills. For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road. For the people laughing & crying & remembering at the end. But, mainly, I wish you could have been there.” -Andreas
I am nearly two days late with the brief Mother’s Day post that’s been simmering for a week or more. And now I’m tired, on the verge of sleep but if I wait another day it’ll be another little piece that never gets written. I do that.
I couldn’t be more fortunate to have the mom I do. What sort of amazing woman takes an eleven-year-old child into her home, integrates her into the family and never, for an instant, makes that child feel any less than one of the girls? And how wondrous is it that my mother was my mother’s best friend, and now mine? When I forget—the way my mom laughed or what she believed in or how much she loved me—I have another mother to remind me. How precious that is to me.
But I miss my mom, my first mom. My mommy. I miss her more today than I did ten years ago. It waxes and wanes, the missing, but it’s never far. And when the missing comes, it crashes into me. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I think of the life that I’d have now had she not gone so soon. Sometimes I’m lost and quiet for days. Mostly I ache to hear her laugh and smell her perfume and feel her arms and trace the veins in her hand as I once did in the hard church pew during the sermon. To trace them now with adult fingers.
When I was young, she had a sepia-colored picture of her own mother in a turquoise frame atop her dresser. I never met my grandmother, but my mom spoke of her often. And she told me that while her own mother had been gone for years, not a day passed that my mother didn’t think of her, and not a day passed that she wasn’t missed.
I understand that now.