remembering

My earliest memory was of a day when I was two years old. I know that is unreasonable, but I recall it in such detail, recall the emotion, the scents, the way the afternoon sun was hot against my cheek, my hair sticking to the sweat beading there, that I know it is genuine. I had awakened from a nap, on my parent's bed, in the back of the two-bedroom trailer where we lived, only five of us kids at that point. As I did with my children, my mother would sometimes lay down with me in the afternoon, hold me close and let me rest, that sweet slumber that babies have. I remember her scent, dove soap, and probably bacon grease in which she cooked everything it seems. I remember the scent of dust on the window screens, and the heat of August in Indiana. I remember waking alone. I remember crying. I registered the sense of real loss for the first time.

In an honored place in my office there sits a simple statue, circular almost, of a mother and child, facing one another. It is carved of wood, was given to me by someone very special. I've seen some like it in museum shops around the world, but only fine ones. This one didn't come from a museum shop though, it came from the hands of a mother in a place where there is no denial of the way things are. She has no mimosa to fog the morning, no burned toast or flowers. Chances are good she has never tasted orange juice, nor had the luxury of sending her children off to school. Never met a friend from the world we create here on line. I wonder if she ever fell in love, but then I see the gentle curve or the child on her knee, and know that of course she did. Of course she did.

I've never had to live like that mother. There were days when my own mother must have felt a similar desperation. Raising four children alone, having already sent three into the world, working nights in a factory for $88 per week, before taxes. Dealing with her own loneliness with nicotine and Canadian whiskey. She did what she could though, and never lost her sense of humor.

In her last week of life, she was on all kinds of medicine to help her heart stabilized, lower her blood pressure. By then, she could barely communicate, but her mind, her quick and caring mind, was still intact.

She'd lost all sense of caring about appearances. The medicine made her hot. Very hot. It was freezing in her room and as we grown up children gathered at her bedside, she kicked off the sheets and even pushed her gown aside to get as much cool air on her skin as she could. She had nothing on beneath the gown.

My brother had to tease her. Humor is what we resort to in our family, to cover the tears. He said to her, "Gee Mom, you've lost weight."

And mom, in her weakened state, with her heart not working, her kidneys shutting down and her lungs mere days from collapse and failure, flipped him the bird.

She still had the ability to make us laugh, to make even that time okay. That my friends, is what mothers do.

Me? I'm in denial. I don't have a mother to call tomorrow, to send rose plants to, or even call the florist when I realize I've waited too long again. I really did wait too long.

It wasn't until I stopped myself from putting cash in the pocket of that bag I bought last week...(bad luck to give handbags or knives without cash) and packaging it to send, that I had to accept there was no one there to open the package.

I sent another package last week, to the person who sent me the statue. I fear that there was no one there to receive that one either. The message wasn't clear I suppose. It should have been. But when we register a sense of loss, one thing I've learned is that it is unforgettable.

As are the people who touch us so deeply.