Today--May 20, 2018–is the 37th anniversary of my mother’s death. I was 20; she was 56. It was 1981. For some reason, it hit me hard today. I felt her presence. And I registered my loss.
Stay in today--not yesterday, not tomorrow.
I attended a morning support group, a "Big Book" meeting for the first time, and needed my reading glasses and a copy of the Big Book. I reached into my blue denim tote bag--and the bigger the bag, the more I tote--and my hand landed right on the good glasses that had been missing since Friday. [I’d been using some blue back-up frames since then, and forgotten those at home.] I had no hope of that but took a chance and reached in, so I could read the text.
And I had purchased a copy of the Big Book just yesterday at the Saturday morning meeting, and had a hot pink Sharpie to mark passages, so I was all set.
It all came together, and I felt my mother was watching out for me.
Afterwards, in the car, I texted w my girlhood/still friends Fritch and Moey. Fritch’s bday is also today. They texted back sweet memories of my Mom.
The Mom whose presence I felt was: Wanting the best for me. Wanting me to have what I needed. Wanting me to be well. Wanting me to know I was not alone. Proud of me. Loving me. Happy for me, Supportive. She channeled clarity, confidence and compassion for me. Those were gifts I had gotten from her gradually--and yet somehow all at once.
I’m not sure I really saw her. But I had a vague, fleeting image of her in her brown winter coat with the double row of buttons in the front. And a glimpse of her brown hair [she did her own Clairol from a bottle] and rosy Irish cheeks.
And a smile. I remember a smile.
Good night.
Stay in today--not yesterday, not tomorrow.
I attended a morning support group, a "Big Book" meeting for the first time, and needed my reading glasses and a copy of the Big Book. I reached into my blue denim tote bag--and the bigger the bag, the more I tote--and my hand landed right on the good glasses that had been missing since Friday. [I’d been using some blue back-up frames since then, and forgotten those at home.] I had no hope of that but took a chance and reached in, so I could read the text.
And I had purchased a copy of the Big Book just yesterday at the Saturday morning meeting, and had a hot pink Sharpie to mark passages, so I was all set.
It all came together, and I felt my mother was watching out for me.
Afterwards, in the car, I texted w my girlhood/still friends Fritch and Moey. Fritch’s bday is also today. They texted back sweet memories of my Mom.
The Mom whose presence I felt was: Wanting the best for me. Wanting me to have what I needed. Wanting me to be well. Wanting me to know I was not alone. Proud of me. Loving me. Happy for me, Supportive. She channeled clarity, confidence and compassion for me. Those were gifts I had gotten from her gradually--and yet somehow all at once.
I’m not sure I really saw her. But I had a vague, fleeting image of her in her brown winter coat with the double row of buttons in the front. And a glimpse of her brown hair [she did her own Clairol from a bottle] and rosy Irish cheeks.
And a smile. I remember a smile.
Good night.
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I'm so sorry for your loss, Alice--still understandably resonating so many years later. I'm glad you felt her presence today .
ReplyDeleteStruck by coincidence - May 30, 2018 is 36. Years since my Dad died, which was when I was 20. Don’t think it clicked that we had that in common. Had you just come home from junior year college for summer? Was your senior year a blur? Glad you felt your mom’s Support. You always are so grounded in your senses, makes it immediate wghen u write of your experiences.
ReplyDeleteLiz
Oh boy, no wonder I feel so simpatica w you (and w Nan, since we both had/have sisters who were in the Peace Corps). I had just finished my sophomore year at Douglass College/Rutgers U and was completely oblivious to my mom's terminal cancer. What was I thinking? She had a wig and everything. I wish I could have told her how much she meant to me. She waited til I got home from college to die. My junior year was not a blur as I loved the daily newspaper and all the friends there. Are you the oldest of 6? 7? I forget. Hugs. Alice
DeleteThis post brought tears to my eyes as I remembered my beautiful, smiling Aunt Anne with the rosy cheeks. I'm sure she is with you still and continues to send grace from heaven. Miss our family, all of them. Love, Linda
ReplyDeleteYes, Lin, me too. I think of your parents a lot. I guess the lesson is to love while you can. They were very loving. Xo Al
DeleteSending you a gentle hug, Alice!
ReplyDeleteThank you friend xo
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