Beautiful, Precious, One-of-a-Kind, But Complicated Memories for Mother’s Day

Photo courtesy of the author.

Photo courtesy of the author.

I don’t like to remember my mother.

Not because she was a bad mother.

Quite the contrary — she was fun and loving and creative and caring. I don’t like remembering my mother because remembering makes it seem like she is something from the past; like she is gone. Even though she died from a brain tumor 16 years ago.

I prefer to trick myself. To feel her presence around me in my daily life. It’s easy for me because I often hear her voice in mine.

I’m now 63 — and reconciled to the fact that each time I pull into my driveway, I’ll hear,

“Home again,
Home again,
Jiggity jig”

Or when I’m telling my daughters something, I’ll often hear my mother’s voice saying it to me.

I’m now 63 and less than 8 years away from the age my mom was when she died.

As a mother to my own daughters who are now lovely young adults, I find that there are so many times when I wish I could tell my own mother:

“I’m sorry.”
“I understand.”
“I love you.”

In my family, daughters can be tough on their moms. We question them. We condemn their perceived imperfections. We need them. We rely on them. We love them. We don’t think we can live without them, even at the same moment that we’re telling them to leave us alone.

Our love is complicated though it remains unconditional.

My mother was many things to many people. But I was so focused on myself and my relationship with my mother (good, bad or in-between) that I didn’t realize how many other people loved her and were touched by her — until hundreds of people crammed into a small community hall to celebrate her life.

I was surprised not only by the number of people there, but who the people were. How did I not know that my mother was friends with my yoga instructor? (It turns out they were neighbors, and my mom created and led the neighborhood fourth of July parade, which turned into a big, festive event. Of course, mom did!).

My mom was full of surprises and, as a child, I sometimes felt like I was living in an I Love Lucy episode. My mom had a zaniness, which I relished. I loved our slow “drive-bys” behind the local grocery store — looking for discarded display items that we could turn into a puppet theatre.

And I loved our mutual joy in discovering an overflowing dumpster outside the carpet store. My mom would toss my brothers, sisters and me into the dumpster and our job was to find the “good” scraps of shag carpeting and toss them to her. She would cut the scraps and glue them onto our existing rugs, turning them into new patchwork carpets. The smell of carpet flooring adhesive still brings a smile to my lips.

But my mother also had a sadness within her, born of dreams unfulfilled (like so many women of her generation). I was too busy focusing on me, me, me to realize this until she was gone.

I wish I could have told her that she was amazing and that I felt her sorrow.

But we mothers do the best we can.

But I was too absorbed in my normal adolescent pain to perceive her pain. I wish she were here so I could apologize. My own guilt is another reason I don’t want to think of her as being gone. How foolish I was.

But we daughters do the best we can.

I prefer to think of my mother as always with me. And truly, there are times I can feel her presence: in the light of the full moon or in the thrift store when I see cordial glasses in hues of red, blue and green.

Growing up, I was enchanted by the set of delicate flute-shaped, gold-filigreed cordial glasses the color of gemstones that my mother had received as a wedding gift. They had remained untouched on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. I had never seen anything so precious. Because our house was too small for our large family, we didn’t have room for very many lovely things. These glasses were special.

Even though I don’t remember the glasses ever being used, in time, they were broken or otherwise somehow disappeared. I always wanted to find another set for my mother. But in all the places to which I’ve traveled and shopped, I’ve never found anything so beautiful.

Beautiful, precious, one-of-a-kind and now gone. But not forgotten.

I love you, Mom.