Mom
Four weeks ago tonight my mother died. I have been counting in my head, while driving, upon rising, before bed, in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t know exactly why. It is not as if I think it will erase the fact of her death, or make it easier. But count I do. As I count how many weeks, days or hours have passed, dates, years, times pop into my mind unbidden.
Hot summer nights in the early 60s, when it was too hot to sleep, especially with a hot, sweaty baby sister clamped to my side. Mom would get us up, and let us sit on the front porch with cold drinks to cool off. We sat still and quiet so we wouldn’t be sent inside too soon, thrilled to be up so late.
And those interminable fifteen minutes spent facing the wall in the corner of the kitchen, sitting very straight, hands folded in my lap as penance for my latest childhood transgression. No whining, no talking, no asking when I could get off the chair, Mom’s rules. Throwing murderous looks at my big sister, my usual accomplice, lest she break ranks and do anything to add time to our sentence.
December 24th. each year of my childhood, unbearably excited, my stomach doing flips, sure I just could not sleep that night, sure this time I would see Santa. My Mom handed me the milk to leave for Santa, and always one of the special hard shortbreads, the one in the shape of Santa, of course.
That summer we went out west in the old station wagon, hauling the borrowed tent-trailer. I was sullen, buried in a book, hardly communicating. Mom cooking on the old Coleman stove, then leaving the breakfast bacon fat to cool and harden on a nearby rock. I joined the family watching the timid chipmunks perch on the skillet for their treat, my teenage hostility put aside, for a while.
Leeds, England, shivering in my red duffle coat, hood up against the rain, jingling the two pence pieces in my pocket, waiting my turn to make a call at the red phone box, at the end of my street, with all the other students. I called collect, once a month or so, to talk to Mom and Dad. Two minutes with Dad, then passed to Mom. Awkward conversation, as our common experiences became fewer over time. But she knew I was grateful for the extra twenty dollars she sent me from time to time, carefully culled from the housekeeping, plus the peanut butter I craved, nonexistent in England then.
The dates each of my children were born, I came to appreciate the mother my own mother was. Mom and I found common ground again in motherhood. Those visits to Montreal, sitting out on the deck, Mom making paper dolls for my girls, as she had made them for me. Not always easy between us, as I asserted my parenting differences, irritated by what I perceived as interference. Yet, really there were so many more similarities.
These past years, when travel was not possible, we spent a lot of time on the phone between visits. We talked about my children, sisters, family, work, relationships, recipes, decorating. She was endlessly interested in what everyone was doing. I noticed, as she got older, she was even quicker than usual to admire accomplishments, to praise efforts, to sympathize; less likely to criticize or offer opinions. My Mom was not a timid, retiring, quiet person. She was strong, sometimes loud, opinionated, sure, at least in her own domain, motherhood. We clashed at times, were irritated with each other, thought both secretly and overtly that the other was wrong. But throughout, she never wavered in her love for her girls, and her absolute conviction that raising us had been the most important and best time of her life. She told us that the three of us are her masterpiece, and her legacy, and that seeing us together, and how much we care for each other, is her proof of a job well done and a life fulfilled.
So as I continue to count, and the time since Mom died passes, I am not waiting for it to be easy, or to forget. No, more moments pop into consciousness, each one featuring my Mom, and I remember. So many times I think I just need to tell Mom one thing, or ask her something. I feel sad thinking she just isn’t here anymore. But then I call one of my sisters to ask for Mom’s BBQ sauce recipe that I have lost, yet again, we laugh and talk, and I realize Mom is always here.
Love you Mom.
