Mother's Day

Six months ago, I laid on the pull out couch of my mom's hospice room watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dark. I knew that it was going to stop soon. I closed my eyes briefly and what came to mind were words spoken only hours earlier in the same space, describing the end of life as a joyful experience, one that overwhelms your whole being and calls you in. I tried to imagine this for my mother. I tried to welcome it for her. I tried to feel it with her. I imagined it was like a firm wind blowing into your face. I imagined that when this struggle ended for her, and for me, that I would get into our boat and feel that wind and breathe and I would feel a release, like I imagined it would feel for her. 

I believe she felt that overwhelming joy as I imagined the wind in my face. And that she had the courage to explore it.

It was November when she died & life slipped into winter and though I thought about it - I never took that boat ride.

Tonight, on the eve of my first motherless Mother's Day, I felt that wind. My daughter was snuggled in my lap, alongside her unborn sister, my son at my side, smiling into the wind, my ever-patient husband at the helm of the boat & clouds filling the evening sky. I don't know that I felt the release I imagined, but I felt her, as I am fortunate to do often. And I hope she felt me being ok. I know she is ok, I have seen her dancing in the clouds. 

I can't call her tomorrow & tell her that I love her and wish her a happy Mother's Day. And that just plain old sucks -- & it will for every Mother's Day forward, and the motherless daughters who have gone before me, back this up. 

Last Mother's Day I think we exchanged hugs in a parking lot when we met for her to bring me our co-op share. The kids had made cards. There weren't gifts or flowers -- that wasn't our style. There were hugs and we undoubtedly talked about her triathlon training and what her grandchildren had been doing. We probably swapped ideas about how we would cook our co-op goodies. And then we parted ways. 

I miss her. Every. Single. Day. In everything I do. 

So tomorrow as I miss her on Mother's Day, it won't be all that different. 

I don't wish she was here so I could give her flowers or bake her a cake or buy her a piece of jewelry. Those aren't what matter. Instead, I wish she could look at Rebecca & Durham and beam. I wish she could tell me a new eggplant recipe. I wish I could cheer her on at her next triathlon. 

Tomorrow, on Mother's Day, it isn't about doing something extraordinary for your mom. Instead, it is about acknowledging & fostering the extraordinary love that flows between mothers and their children every single day. May we all be so fortunate to give and receive such a love -- the ultimate overwhelming joy.