Fifty-five years. Double nickels. This event fifty-five years ago set me on the course to my destination, the Motherless Daughters Ministry. I was just jumping into the great unknown, because it never came into my mind that I would do this someday. Why would it?
My biggest cheerleader and supporter lay lifeless on her hospital bed. I was only fifteen. I was alone. Alone.
That was not supposed to happen.
Mothers stand on the sidelines, yell and embarrass you.
Mothers are your sparring partners when you wear hideous makeup or clothes.
Mothers cry with you when you break up with your first boyfriend.
Mothers lead your cheering squad as you walk across the stage to get your diploma.
Mothers smile and weep at your wedding.
Mothers hold your first-born.
Mothers are a phone call away for advice—how to cook, how to raise your children, how to do anything.
Mothers love you come rain or shine.
I missed all of that.
55 Mother’s Days.
55 years of talking to mom.
55 years of someone calling me her daughter.
Today marks fifty-five years since my mother’s death. Memories of my mother are as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday. Funny how my mind holds on to her details, locked in my memory like a portrait.
People don’t get it. The scars of loss last forever. Does it get any easier? Yes and No. Yes because I have learned to manage my grief. No because as I look at my scar, all of the memories are still there.
I guess I should be thankful I had her as long as I did. It only seems like a drop in the bucket of time. A flash of light. Each morning I give gratitude. Today my “I am” statement is “I am my mother’s daughter.” I am kind, caring, and loving. I am good at remembering the important things—like what today means.
Am I too old to grieve? Am I over it yet? I just need my mommy!