This week’s Finish the Sentence Friday is a rough one for me. I wasn’t really sure about doing it, but I’ve missed the last couple of Fridays, so I don’t really have a choice.
This one might hurt a little.
I’m supposed to write a letter to you for Mother’s Day. I think this is where I’m supposed to talk about how much I miss you, and lament the fact that you aren’t a part of your grandchildren’s lives.
You were a Drama Queen, and we both know it. When your cancer came back that last time and we all had to face the fact that this was going to be your final battle, it was a given that you were going to leave us in the most memorable way and on the most symbolic day possible. Since you were heavily into your religious phase at that point, we were all placing our bets on Easter.
It never crossed my mind that you’d die on Mother’s Day. That was a little cruel, even for you.
Yes, I’m angry. Twenty-seven years later, I am still pissed off at you for dying on Mother’ Day. I mean, Mother’s Day was always going to be hard without you anyway, but to mourn the anniversary of your death and miss you on Mother’s Day on the same day is really a double-whammy I could have done without. It’s not fair.
So I’m being selfish. Damn it, I want my own Mother’s Day. I want my Mom. I want to know what it’s like to have an adult relationship with the woman who brought me into this world. I want to have someone in my life that I can turn to when I have questions: “Was I as stubborn as my daughter is?” “Did I talk as much as my son does?” “Do my kids look anything like I did at that age?”
Did you love me anywhere near as much as I love them?
Do you miss me, just a little?
I’m sure you are watching from above. You have to be. You’re up in Heaven, finally getting along with Dad and his sisters. You’re reunited with your own little brother, and I know you find the time every day to wrap your arms around your niece Randee just to hear her call you “Aunt Kay.” God, how you loved spoiling that little girl!
You have to be in Heaven, Mom. If there’s no Heaven, then you are simply gone, and I can’t accept that.
I think you would have liked my husband. You probably would have urged us to end the marriage sooner than we did, but you’d be here for me right now when I so desperately need you. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this divorce without someone to lean on. I don’t know how I can be a single mom without my own mom in my corner.
That corner is pretty damned lonely, Mom.
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. Your grandkids will make me breakfast and we will have a good day, just the four of us. I’ll probably tell a few funny stories about you, make them laugh. We’ll call their other grandmother and wish her a happy Mother’s Day. I think you would like her, by the way. You probably wouldn’t get along very well because she is every bit as determined and strong-willed as you were. But you’d like her. Even more than that, I know you’d respect her.
She’s been the best mother-in-law I could have had. I call her “Mom.” I don’t do it to hurt you, and I hope you can forgive me for loving her as much as I do. She’s been a great mom for the past eighteen years.
I’ve been blessed in my life to have two amazing mothers. I’ve lost you both now; you to breast cancer and her to the divorce from her son. I’ll have to call her “Jean” now, instead of “Mom,” just like I have had to start calling her son “Ken” instead of “Honey.”
Mom, I never appreciated how strong you were. You were a single mom before it became fashionable. You worked a dead-end job that you hated, and you had to know that your second husband was an asshole. You knew what his son was too, I think; there was a reason why you kept convincing him to move out, wasn’t there? I’m so sorry I doubted you.
I think of you all the time, not just on Mother’s Day. I’m a single mom, just like you, and I am so afraid that I’m not going to do it as well as you did. I wish you were here to tell me what to do and how to do it. I don’t want to be the grown-up all the time.
I want my Mommy.
I want to spend Mother’s Day with my children, and I want to enjoy it for what it is: my day. Not yours. Just once, I want Mother’s Day to be Mother’s Day, not The Day My Mother Died.
This year, can you give me that gift? For just this one day, just this one time, stay out of my thoughts. Let me have a Happy Mother’s Day. For Once.