Today marks 20 years without Mom.
I remember the day she left, the day I stood
on our porch
in a pink nightshirt,
tears rolling down, down, down into
a small circle on the fabric below my chin.
I remember waking up that morning with a
feeling of dread,
I remember the way Dad’s
face looked and the fear
and uncertainty
that formed into the pit in my stomach.
I remember waiting for the ambulance on
the front steps
of our mobile home,
I remember the
long, drawn out breaths that
filled my lungs, then left.
I remember Mom and Dad driving away in the
ambulance
without me, without my brother.
I remember waiting
with a hope that makes
the heart sick.
And I don’t want to,
but I remember when
he came back without her.
I don’t remember:
how I was told.
the days following.
feeling anything.
the faces, both familiar and strange, offering condolences.
I couldn’t remember her favorite color to pick an
outfit
for the showing so my aunt suggested blue.
I don’t remember how I was able to cry so much in the
quiet hours of the night without waking my dad; maybe
he couldn’t hear because he was crying too.
I don’t remember how time
kept going, how people kept
living.
I don’t remember burying the
anger so deep
that I couldn’t
feel it or find it, and through
the years I forgot where I put it. After a while,
I didn’t remember
how to be a good daughter,
I didn’t remember how to care.
I don’t remember laughing with Mom about cute
boys,
crying on her shoulder after my first break-up,
or asking
her for advice after a fight with a friend,
so I drank until I
couldn’t stand up, until I didn’t
remember that I didn’t
remember.
I don’t remember Mom being there to soothe my
growing
pains, to comfort me, to guide me gently
through the hard
and awkward life of a teenager
because I guided myself.
I don’t remember the feelings of inadequacy, the
jealousy
of friend’s moms who were so endearing
because I chose
to forget those glaring reminders
of my motherless years.
I don’t remember Mom being there when I graduated
from
her alma mater, I don’t recall her proud smile,
the sound of
her hands clapping when my name was called.
I don’t remember her affirming words and the confidence
they instilled in me when I got my first real job, when I
started college, when I began to make the difficult choices
that would shape the rest of my life.
I don’t remember her helping me as I prepared to move
out on my own, as I sorted though my belongings alone,
and
packed my life into boxes not knowing what I’d need.
I don’t remember the words of wisdom she shared with
me
on my wedding day when I married my best friend
just like
she had done 33 years earlier.
Now I’m a wife, and I don’t remember being taught my
way around a kitchen, how to patch up an old shirt, or
how to keep plants alive.
I don’t remember what it feels like to be her daughter,
I don’t remember the convenience of calling her when
I’m having a bad day or need a recipe for dinner.
I don’t remember how our relationship turned to
friendship over
the years as I grew older and left my
adolescence behind.
I don’t remember how the last 20 years passed so
quickly
or how I grew up so fast, because some days
I still feel like
that 10 year old girl who just lost her
mother.
Mom on her horse, “Bill.”
September 1967
Age 16
Mom on graduation day.
June 1969
Age 18
Mom and Dad when they were dating.
April 1971
Age 20
