Mom

I miss my mother. It’s nearly constant. The more birthdays I celebrate, the closer I come to the age she was when we were closest. We spoke daily. About every little thing and nothing. I am so beyond grateful for the relationship I got to have with her. I realize daily how much she got to teach me without even knowing it. 

In no way do I intend for what follows to infer that I thought my mother was vain. I will admit that in my less wise days, I believed she was. I’ve come to understand her languages. It’s looking back on journals and memory that keeps me close to her today. It’s also bittersweet to ache for that dynamic now. 

She worried very much about appearances. We were poor for many years. She did her best to present her family on our best foot as much as she could. Her ability to make the best of an absolute shit show was a work of art. Especially now that I can see who she was with my more mature perspective. 

My mother was an endlessly faithful woman. Her faith wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t always logical, but she found her comfort and peace in it. It’s what gave her the will she had. Making sure her face was pretty. Her hair was colored and presentable. She loved getting her nails done. Because despite her monetary weaknesses, she felt rich as a mother. 

Putting on a good face is all I really know how to do. It’s the foundation of my coping skills. It’s how I figure out how to make the best with what I have. Like an archaeologist, I will dig and scrape until I find silver linings. Even if I have to create them by putting on some makeup, putting effort into this new hair, slipping into some comfortably cute clothes, and going to trivia. 

We had many conversations about my deconversion. It wasn’t one of the easier topics we were vulnerable with. We frustrated each other because I was becoming cynical to the very tool she used to get through crisis. I wonder how those parking lot chats would go with a basket of fries and coke today?

Her eyes always lit up when she saw babies in public. She was that woman who would coo over strangers’ babies at Walmart. Her face glowed when she got the joy of holding their tiny hands. Her love of babies and children was a constant thread in my life. Seeing those memories now, I see a much more fatigued woman. 

I see babies in public and get what she must have felt. Instant, reflexive smile. An instant mood lifter for me is the sound of babies laughing. Seeing my granddaughters just exist makes my cheeks hurt. 

I would love to ask different questions these days. Perhaps it’s my own subconscious yearning, but I feel more like her than I thought I would. I feel more of my mother’s versions of life’s pleasures. Her joy in the benign. I feel like I can understand some of her weights. Her very silent suffering. 

I miss my mother. As my body has morphed into a post menopausal condition, I feel she could relate to the disappointment. As multiple sclerosis stole her physical and mental function, I can remember now the dimming in her eyes as she lost pieces of herself. 

She’s frozen in time. 

She knows me through the veil. 

Her presence is felt when I need it most. When the persevering is hardest, I can hear her laughing and telling one of her theatrical jokes. 

Grief never ends. It just evolves.