Tomorrow would have been my mom‘s 97th birthday. While it’s unlikely that she would have lived that long, her death more than 20 years ago hasn’t gotten any easier to accept. I discovered just how true that is when I opened an old spiral notebook a few weeks ago and saw an entry I wrote in the fall of 2007, just over six years after her passing following the cerebral hemorrhage she had suffered 18 months prior. Ironically, that piece of writing had been prompted by my opening the same notebook, which had belonged to Mom, and seeing a note she’d written on the first page.
I talk a lot about how writing sloppy copy–or simply journaling–can help us go deep and access our true feelings. That was certainly true for me when I scribbled the following paragraphs:
9/25/07
I open this notebook and see Mom’s handwriting. Unexpected. Heart heavy. I still miss her so much. She’s a part of so much that I do, that I am, and even more what I try to be. She’s with me all the time, even when I’m not conscious of it. But that does not fill the gap. Where is her wisdom when I need it? Her warmth? Her laughter? Her ease of being? Or was it my ease of being when we clicked in?
That didn’t happen all the time, of course, but it sure happened a lot. Even after she got sick and the words we shared were few, I’d climb alongside her in her hospital bed, hold her hand as we sat side-by-side, our legs extended, and feel perfectly happy. The fact that she had lost so much didn’t even enter into the equation. Together we sat. And were serene. I’m not sure I’ve been perfectly happy since.
That conclusion was certainly nothing I thought of consciously when I was writing the words. But even now, all these years later, they strike a deep chord of truth.
As my brother and I celebrate Mom’s birthday tomorrow, I will hold onto the thought that she would have wanted me to be perfectly happy now and forever, and I will strive harder for that. And, as always, I will continue to hold her close.
When I talk about my mom, I know she sounds too good to be true. As all my old friends will attest, I’m not exaggerating. She was that special. She had a light that brightened the lives around her. I wish you could have known her. I wish she was still here.
