About Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s day, and let me begin by wishing all the moms out there a very happy day! I hope you were all able to have a break from making decisions and catering to everyone else’s needs, at least for a moment.

This was my first mother’s day as a mother and I have to admit it was very strange. I went through the day in a bit of a fog really, trying to remain distracted as much as possible. We went to church, then to coffee with friends, as we do every Sunday. After coffee, we decided to drive up to Seattle to go to the REI anniversary sale, but on the way, we made a pit stop at some friend’s for a quick lunch.

We spent a little over an hour wandering around REI with the masses, found a few items on sale for our upcoming road trip to Colorado, and then we drove back home.

We called Bryan’s mother, we called our grandmothers. I called my sister, my aunt, my cousin and my friend in Colorado and we wished them all a very happy day, as they did me. We all spoke with joy and happiness and described brunches and flowers and taking the day off from diapers and cooking.

There was one topic that remain unmentioned, however; the one thing that made me hope the sun would go down a little quicker today. That one thing is the fact that I don’t have a mother to call, or celebrate or enjoy brunch with.

For many women who have lost their mothers, this day is bittersweet. We enjoy our families and we enjoy our children, but we remember our mothers as well and for many of us, the wounds are deep, the sadness great. As it is with any loss I am sure, it cannot be explained and it cannot be understood until it has been experienced first-hand.

And so today while I sat in church listening to poems about mothers, watching slide shows of mothers, sitting with women and their mothers and daughters, I remembered my mother, and I was sad that I could not see her with my eyes or feel her with my hands.

Thankfully, I can still see her in my mind, I can still feel her with my heart.

I can still feel the softness of her small, delicate hands, always smelling of lavender or gardenia.

I can still see her half-cocked smile, the way one eye would squint with mischief. I can hear her high, lilting laugh and see her shrug her shoulders, cocking her head to one side as she giggled.

My mother was a strong woman, full of fire and energy, she was a force to be reckoned with.

She loved people and she loved to laugh. She was never one to miss a party and when she entered the room, it was impossible to miss her.

It’s funny really, as I describe my mother I realize something that I supposed I’ve always suspected: she never really left me. She is just a new and improved version now; her name is Evelyn Virginia, she’s my daughter.