It's almost three o'clock in the morning and I still can't sleep. My bio-rhythm settings are a wild mess and I keep cycling into another and different rhythm. I'll probably sleep most of today again as I did yesterday. John and I seem to have different schedules, as far as our sleeping habits go.
So, as I was lying there, straining to gaze through the darkness (what I thought I'd see I have no idea), it occurred to me that Mother's Day is next month. I think - that particular day is not a big deal around here. And that started me thinking about my mother.
She died of a massive heart attack when she was 43 years old and I was 20. I was thousands of miles away from Toronto, Canada in Selma, Alabama and I remember my father flying through and between the Appalachians in his little twin engine plane, taking us both to the last rites of his ex-wife.
I remember how she looked in her casket. Scared the hell out of me.
But I can't remember any tender moments in my life with her. No hugs, no kisses, no 'I love you's'. It's just a big blank, except for the time she slapped my face and threw me out the back door. Not as bad as it sounds; I had lipped her something awful. Although the actual words are lost in the mists of time, I know I deserved what I got. I could have a tongue like an adder. All I remember is standing at the foot of the back door steps, holding a tea towel and looking up at the light streaming through the window.
It hurts this is all I can remember of my mom in any great detail. Because I did love her and I think she loved me and her other children. I also think she was one of those women who put her husband first and foremost and when she lost him, her world went to pieces. I harbored the thought for years that perhaps she wanted to die. It was her third heart attack and she wouldn't do anything the doctors told her. This was way before interventional cardiology, but they still preached diet, to quit smoking, and to get regular exercise.
I'm glad my sister Maureen and I say 'I love you' a lot. As we did with our youngest sister, Lynda who died of breast cancer at barely 50 years of age. It took me years to learn to say it without squirming and feeling embarrassed but I'm glad I did. It's what in my heart and you may be sure if I say it, I mean it.
But I wish I remembered more of my Mom.
**This piece was started last week. I think. Anyway, not today.
You've talked about yur mom with me and she sounded, from what you've said before, like a decent woman but unfocused except for her husband.
ReplyDeleteBut look at her daughters: all with loving hearts, all talented.
If the measure of a person is the love they create: then your mother did an awesome job in creating you.