“Happy Mother’s Day,” my youngest said to me in the church pew this morning. It was said as an afterthought, after a sleepy stretch following the end of the sermon. It was my first such greeting of the day, and it was all that I needed.
For the last fourteen years, Mother’s Day has been a mixed bag for me. I slink by the tables of carnations sitting by the door of the church hoping someone else will be trapped so I can escape flower free. I avoid the card sections of general stores and their deafening pink reminders. I go to movies where time is relative and disappears quickly. I clean. I talk about politics, about books, about events. I do everything – but think.
For the first four years following Mom’s death, I successfully avoided processing the day all together. And then, I had a son. And then, I had another son. And for the last ten years, I stand conflicted.
I’m a mess. I’m still avoiding, ducking, slinking. But, now I’m avoiding, ducking, slinking and celebrating. This year it was cuddling in a darkened movie theater giggling through the scarier parts of Star Trek.
How can I not rejoice? How can I not feel incredibly lucky to share life with these two beautiful souls? I look forward. I watch in wonder as two lives follow separate, but equal rhythms. One is thoughtful, observant – as calm and deep as a quiet walk on a forest trail. The other is vibrant and wild – as lively and passionate as a jazz quartet on the streets of the French Quarter. And, dearest God, how much I love them both.
It’s the same love that turns and suddenly stabs me – stabs me with look-back thoughts – the ones that remind me of how beautiful she was; of how her laugh sounded; of what she could create with fabric, chocolate and icing; of how she would have loved to be a grandmother.
The thoughts hit me with the force of red matter and crush the center of my chest. I feel my eyes getting wet, my contacts moving a little smoother against the cornea, my vision sharpening. Silently, I battle the onslaught. For Pete’s sake! Fourteen years! It should be easier by now. It simply will not do to be discovered crying on Mother’s Day. I wrench my thoughts forward again, stubbornly back-filling the hole.
