Missing my mother

I lay in bed alone in the dark waiting to hear the sound of the front door opening. It seems my body doesn’t want to fall asleep until my brain has accounted for everyone.

There is one person missing from our home tonight. Her laughter has been gone all week. Her thick-rimmed glasses are here. The smell of her soap clings desperately to a couple of her dresses, the fancy bar of soap she always has. Her pictures are hung throughout the house. Her dark hair, her smile. But she is not here.

The house has been filled with strangers for the past few days. I love having company and the excitement of a party makes me laugh and play. And yet, I know that something awful must have happened recently. I heard my father’s voice. I felt the wailings of my grandmother as if her very breath was being pulled from her lungs. I know something bad has happened, but we are having a party.

Where is my mother?

This past week marked the 33rd year since her death. I still miss the things we never got to do together. I still long for her to be busy cooking while I sit and talk with her. To hear her advice on everything. To have her spoil my children just because she can.

I spent so many hours wanting to feel her arms around me. I wanted to tell her about the boys I liked and how I felt alone in a room full of people. I wished for the universe to bring her back if only to have her write me instructions on how to be a good human being.

I still look for her in other women. I find her hair and her eyes looking past me. I hear her laughter, boisterous and happy. I can imagine what she might say to me. Or how she would feel if I could just touch her face.

So, how do I sleep? How do I reconcile a loss so deep that it took a part of me? I get up and place my own thick-rimmed glasses down by the sink. I wash my face with my own bar of soap. The fancy kind that is wrapped in beautiful paper. I pull my dark hair up. I am my mother’s daughter. I can see her in my eyes, and my smile. I can hear her laughter when I laugh.

I walk into my children’s room. They are angelic in their sleep. I smile and let my love pour over them. I wonder if my mom thought about the moments she would miss? All the firsts she would miss? The first boyfriend, first kiss, first love, first heartbreak? Did she wonder if her babies would be okay? Yes. She did.

Losing her shaped me in so many ways. I have held a belief that everyone will eventually leave me, for as long as I can remember. Which created one of my biggest fears: that I will be old and alone. Life without my mother taught me to look for the good in everything. To be grateful for all that I have and that I get to experience. I am quick to forgive and ask for forgiveness. I love deeply and dearly. I love laughter especially when it is shared with my little ones.

Have I reconciled the loss? No, not completely. I still have sad moments and wish I could call her to talk about it. I may not ever be able to fill the hole left when my mother died. I no longer try to. I have accepted that it is there.

Now I work to create a life filled with love and happy memories. My family, especially my children, fill my heart. I think my mother would be proud of the woman I am. And so, I get back into bed, my brain satisfied that everyone is where they should be. My heart is full and I am ready to close to my eyes and sleep.