Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. It’s also the seventh Mother’s Day since my mother died.
When I was a small child and could fit in her chair with her, I would crawl up and wiggle my butt between my mother’s butt and the arm rest, then I’d lay my head on her lap. Mom would always start stroking my hair, so gently. I can still feel her warm hand softly moving my hair from my cheek and placing it behind my ear — over and over, as we all, as a family watched television. She would stroke my hair as long as I sat there with her. Mom, I wish you could do that today, one more time.
I remember the day when my mother got her very own piano. She was thrilled! Dad had one end of a heavy rope tied around the upright 1920’s piano and the other end tied to the bumper of his VW beetle which he ever so slowly and inch by inch, eased backward as the piano was lowered into our basement. I can still hear Mom playing Nola, as she’d played countless times during my childhood. Mom, I wish I could hear you play your piano today, one more time.
My mother loved to laugh. Many times, she’d get to laughing so hard there would be no sound coming from her. We’d all say, “There she goes!” which only served to make her laugh that much harder until the tears started to flow. Mom, I wish I could see you laughing hysterically today, one more time.
But, there won’t be one more time, not today. That’s simply the facts of life. I will miss my mother always. Until we meet again, the memories of you will keep me company. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
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