Mother's Day

I have mother issues. Is there a daughter who doesn't? I am also a mother,
so I guess that means my daughters have issues with their mother.
Throughout history, mothers have both been revered and the cause for anything that goes wrong in the universe. Tomorrow is Mother's Day,
the day of the year set aside to honor mothers. It is also one of the most stressful days of the year for many women. I know I'm stressed.

I have spent every available minute of the last week in bed sleeping. I love to sleep! It's my favorite thing to do when I want to avoid something I don't
want to face, and I don't want to face Mother's Day. It's depressing to me. I listen to all my friends talk about their mothers with such love and I wish I
had that. At heart, I am still a little girl who wants her mommy, but my mommy is never coming. My mother is still alive, I think. I really struggle
with all the emotions I have tied to her, most of which I don't understand.
I'm angry with her. I'm sad for her. She is a human being, and I suppose she did the best she could.....but I don't believe she did do the best she could.

I try to be understanding of her. After all, I am a mother myself and as far as mistakes go, I have made some big ones. My mother was the eldest child
born into an alcoholic, blue collar country family. She has two younger brothers. I know very little of her life except the bits and pieces I have
gathered over the years, so I have little to help me to understand her. Her mother died when she was around 12. I have heard two versions of how she died. Her father, my grandfather, told me she died "of brain cancer or breast cancer, I can't remember which." She told me her mother died shortly after giving birth to her youngest brother, of complications from childbirth. I
don't know what kind of mother my grandmother was to my mother, but I know my mother resented her dying. My grandfather was not one to be
alone, so he remarried fairly soon after she died.

My mother's new step-mother, Evelyn, was not someone my mother liked at all. My mother said Evelyn was a clod woman who drank as much as her father did. I don't know much more about her, except she died too. My grandfather remarried again to a woman I would know and love to be my grandmother, Dorothy. My mother didn't care for her much, either. As I
think about it, I cannot recall anyone my mother did like. As far as grandmothers go, though, Dorothy was the best. I loved her.

I know life was hard for my mother. Living with alcoholics is never easy,
but my mother was also the victim of incest. My uncle Danny told me the children all shared a bedroom growing up. At night, my drunken
grandfather would come into the bedroom to get my mother. My uncle did
not go into any details, so that's all I know. I think it's all I really need to
know, anyway. My grandfather had some brothers, but there was one in particular I remember. Uncle Harry was the "fun" uncle. When I was little
he was at a family gathering with his five daughters. Even though I was
little, I knew exactly what my dad meant when he said "yeah, Harry got to
all his girls." It would not be a leap then to think he probably got to my
mother as well.

My mother also developed early and she had very large breasts. She told me she would skip school because the boys would snap her bra straps and try to feel her up. Breast size was really important to my mother. I was slow to develop, and graduated high school with an A cup. Once I had my first daughter, my breasts decided to catch up and I wound up with a C cup, but
my mother wasn't happy with that. Several times over my life she made comments about my cup size. I was happy with a C cup but she would say, "Don't you want bigger breasts?" No, I really didn't. Somehow, her
perception of female sexuality and self esteem was tied to the size of her breasts.

She graduated high school and married a serviceman. While her husband
was serving, she met the man who would raise me as his daughter. He was older than she was, divorced with two teenage daughters, and had a good
job at the local B & W. She became pregnant with me while she was still married to the serviceman. According to her, he offered to raise me as his
own, very noble of him, actually. My mother divorced him and married my father.

It wasn't a happy marriage. Both of my parent were alcoholics and my
mother was not prepared to be a parent, though she was in her twenties
when she had me. She did what was expected of most women at that time.
She was a member of the PTA (Parent Teachers Association.) She was a girl scout troop leader. She was a housewife and had dinner on the table every night at the same time. The house was clean and her children were
reasonably well behaved. To an observer, it would appear she was a good mother. At times, she could be a good mother. When I was around 12, my parents were in a particularly vicious argument. Out of the blue my mother yells "She isn't even your daughter!" That was the first I heard my father was not my father. He yelled back "What kind of mother tells her daughter her father is not her father in the middle of an argument?" She yelled back "I already told her, she already knows." Then she looked at me and said
"Didn't I already tell you?" She never said any such thing to me, but not wanting to be beaten I nodded my head in agreement. Satisfied, my mother said "See?" I don't know where the argument went from there, my head was spinning. They got divorced shortly afterward.

When I think of my mother from a distance, and not how she relates to me,
I feel so sad for her. She is bitter and angry. It consumed her to the point
where she has no hope, no faith life can be good. She does not know how to love or to be loved. I understand she is a victim of her childhood, and of
the times she was raised in. She is an alcoholic. She didn't survive her life.
When I think of her as my mother, however, it is hard to feel compassion
for her. I do try. I hope one day to be able to. I try to look at those few moments when she allowed herself to be a good mother to me and hold on
to them, but I have yet to succeed for more than a short while. She was a
cold, hard woman most of the time, and that is what I see, what I remember when I think of my mother.

I don't want to, and it makes me sad. When Mother's Day comes around
each year, I wonder what she is doing, what she is thinking, if she even
misses me. I am angry with her! I wanted, needed her to be my mother. I
try to hold on to the gifts she has given me, such as my ability to be tough. I survived the traumatic events in my life in part because she taught me to be tough. Like many things, though, that gift has cost me. I am not as open
and loving with my daughters as I would like to be. I know I seem cold to
them at times, and I do hug them, love them fiercely and deeply, but there is
a wall there. I would really like to be a warm, loving mother who gives
freely of her affection, but it is difficult for me. In that respect, I am handicapped. How do I reserve a day to honor her? Is she deserving of
being honored? I can't answer.

Because my mother was unable to be a mother to me, I parent by exception.
I know what hurt me as a child, and what I wanted from my mother, so I
don't do the things which caused me pain, and I try to give my children what
I wanted in a mother. That is not the same as parenting because your
parents were good people. I am often insecure, wondering if I am doing the best I can by my daughters. The worst part about parenting is you don't get your grade until your children are adults. That's when you see the fruits of your labors, and the results of your mistakes. I am seeing my mistakes reflected in the lives of my adult daughters and I am sad. I can tell myself
I did the best I could, and I really did, but still, I am sad. I have loved my daughters fiercely and with everything I had to give. I hope at the end of
the day, it is enough.

I understand the time and culture my mother lived in. I try to give her the benefit of the doubt, but in the end I am still angry with her. She was victimized as a child in the worst possible way a child can be violated. She knows that pain well. Yet, not only did she allow my father to do the same to me, she facilitated his access to me. I just can't reconcile that. Incest scars every single aspect of your soul; leaves no area of your life unaffected.
When I became an adult, I had no memory of what happened to me. I did
what was expected and got married at 18. At 19, I gave birth to my first daughter. When I discovered I married a pedophile, I went to the ends of
the earth to protect my precious little girls. I couldn't take away the pain of what happened to them, but I didn't have to allow it to continue.

I instilled in my daughters something I never had; a sense of self worth.
Being born female meant your worth was diminished. A female in my
family was worth only what she could provide in service to the men in her
life. I never wanted my daughters to feel inferior simply because they were female. I stressed education and self sufficiency from the time they could speak. Although my children were victimized, I refused to allow them to be victims. I taught them to be confident in who they were and to stand in the face of injustice. I taught them to be all the things I could not. I took my insecurities, my pain and used it to ensure my children would not have to
live my life. My pain would not be their pain, my failings would not be
theirs. In many ways, I did succeed, but I have also failed them. I suppose I would not be human if I had not made mistakes along the way.

My daughters are too young yet to appreciate the sacrifices I have made
on their behalf, or to understand the struggles I faced as a single parent.
It will be years before they can frame our relationship in any type of
context. They will never know the pain in my heart from feeling as if you
didn't matter even to your own mother. They matter to me. That is what I cannot grasp. Why didn't I matter to my mother? She was so cold towards
me, though I was desperate for her love and affection. After the divorce,
I was trying to cook supper for us and asked my mother to teach me how to cook. Her reply was "No one taught me and I'm not going to teach you." I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I wanted
to be just like her. I put on her make-up, wore her jewelry and she was
furious when she caught me. I had to sit in a corner holding the make-up a
nd jewelry for hours, until her anger subsided. She allowed my brothers to beat me, to hurt me and when I defended myself it was me she punished.
I was older and I should know better, she explained. My brothers were 1
and 2 years younger. She would often punish me to extremes. I spent the entire summer once on a couch, looking out the window while she slept
and my brothers played. I waited for someone to come home so I could
get up and play too.

After my parents got divorced, she set aside any pretense of appearances.
She didn't seem to care anymore if she did what was expected of her. She didn't take care of us kids, the house wasn't clean anymore, and she spent
all of her spare time in bars. That was the only place I could spend any time with her. Back then, a child could hang out in the bar if the parent was drinking there. She taught me how to be sexual with men. She taught me
my only value was in my sexuality, how much men desired me. She beat me more frequently and with greater severity after the divorce. She beat me so badly once that even my father was concerned and wanted to notify the
police. I didn't want him to call the police, but my mother lost custody of
me and two of my brothers. She was permitted to keep one of my brothers, though I didn't understand it. Even now, I find it ironic my father was concerned about my mother beating me. From my perspective, it was
like the pot calling the kettle black.

When I was 16, she took me out to breakfast after the bars closed to have
a talk with me. She told me she was dying and had only a few months to
live. I was devastated. For the next few months, I went over to her house
as often as I could, doing things for her, cleaning the house. I doted on her. She lived across town, so it was difficult for me to get to her house. She
never came to pick me up from my father's house; I either took the bus or walked. She never got sick. I never knew what disease was killing her, but
it was never mentioned again. My had mother used it to gain attention. She used my fear of losing my mother to her advantage. I do not understand her.

After I had my daughters, I tried to incorporate her into my new family as grandma, but it was difficult. I tried to have a relationship with her,
talking to her about the problems I faced as a new mother, but I never
received any type of support. When I talked about how my husband had become physically violent with me and I wanted to leave him, it wasn't her
who stood by my side, it was her husband. He was a kind, decent man. He offered to shelter me and my two children in their small apartment, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. He stood his ground with her though, and
told me I had a place to live if I wanted to leave. I never forgot his kindness during that time, nor did I forget my mothers' lack of it.

I did leave my husband and entered The Battered Women's Shelter. Again,
my mother was nowhere to be found but by this time I wasn't expecting
her. I entered into counseling and started to heal the scars of my childhood and become the parent I desired to be for my daughters. I came to see the relationship with my mother as toxic to me and I stopped going to see her.
I had little contact with her at all for years. I healed much of my pain. I
missed not having a mother in my life. I saw the relationships my friends
had with their mothers and while they were not perfect, I wanted that. I needed my mother. I felt it was time to reconnect with her. I was older,
wiser, more mature. I felt I could accept my mother as she was, devoid
of what my expectations in her were. I would never have the mother I
wanted or needed, and if I was to have a mother at all, I needed to accept
her at face value, just as she was.

I started to spend more time with her. We went to yard sales, and
shopping. We went to bingo halls. I came over just to visit. When she
had her gallbladder removed, I opened up my home and cared for her overnight. Nothing had changed, my mother was still the same, but I
accepted her with all of her faults. For a while, it worked. I tried to talk
to her about my childhood. I wanted to gain some understanding and
insight into our lives. I was careful how I phrased any questions, so as not
to place blame on her, not to judge. I did not receive much information.
Her answers were short, contrived. Once, I tried to bring up the sexual
abuse, to see if she would offer me anything to it. I said "Dad molested me when I was little." She had no reaction. I could have said "the sun just
ducked behind the clouds." She replied "that's how men are." And it was the end of the conversation. So that was our relationship and I accepted it
was all it was going to be.

When my second husband left, my life fell apart. My mother was no help
at all. I became sick, so depressed I required hospitalization. When I
returned home, I was talking to my mother on the phone, telling her how
much it meant to me that my father had come to visit. (She did not come to visit, but, I never expected either one of them to come see me.) I don't
think I finished my train of thought when she hung up the phone on me.
And so that was the end of that. I have not spoken to my mother since.
I can only guess she felt I was implying some sort of slight by telling her
dad had come to visit, and since she hung up the phone I will never know
what was on her mind.

About a year ago, someone called me and left a message saying it was
urgent I return the call. I did not recognize the number, nor did I recognize
the voice. The caller did not identify me by name, nor did they identify themselves. I thought it was a wrong number. I tried to return the call and received an answering machine stating some office hours, so I hung up, not wanting to leave a personal message at a place of business. The caller called the next day, saying that the message I heard was the correct number. I
tried to return the call several more times without success. The line was
either busy or I heard some strange tone. I played the messages over and
over. Something about the caller's voice.....it was my mother. The last
message left she said "well I guess there's nothing more to say." I may
never know what she was trying to contact me about; she never answered
her phone and I never got the answering machine again.

I wonder how long I will grieve the loss of my mother. I never really had a mother, and she is not dead (that I know of) so it is strange to me to grieve
the loss of something I never had to begin with. So that is why Mother's
Day is stressful to me. I want to forgive my mother, because she is the only person she could be. I just don't know how. I understand horrible things happened in her life, but instead of protecting me from the things that hurt
her, it was as if she wanted me to suffer as much as she had. I go back to
the "no one taught me how to cook, so I'm not teaching you." Since she suffered, then I must suffer with her. I don't understand. I don't
understand because I love my daughters so much I would never want
them to experience pain and heartache in their life. And to the extent
that I am able, I will protect them from it.

Mother's Day Pancakes

There can be many sides to the same story, so this is the flip side of Mother's Day, the side of the day which fills my heart with joy despite the heartache hiding from within. My children opened my heart with love, such love that nothing of my mother clouded a moment of my day. Children replace heartache with heart. It is impossible to feel insignificant when the eyes of
a child shine into your soul. I may not have mattered to my mother, but I definitely matter to my children.

I can have thousands upon thousands of moments when I feel I am an utter failure as a parent, but it takes just one second of love from my child to wipe away the mountain. Today was my day. I was not able to be with all of my children in presence, but I felt them with me in spirit. Everything I did with my daughters today was something I wanted to do; they did not take one second for themselves. We watched Lady Gaga's new video,"Judas,"
(which I loved) and she sat patiently with me while I compared it to the Madonna video, "Like A Virgin." She let me explain the allegorical content, and we compared the two videos with respect to style, format and artistic
value. She usually doesn't like to hear anything I have to say if it sounds like learning might take place. We even discussed Lady Gaga's choreography
and musical influences! I loved it!

Next, we went to the grocery store and picked up some very fresh and
flavorful blackberries. Blackberries are one of my favorite fruits to eat
because when I eat them I almost feel the fresh country air of my childhood calling me back. I feel the warm sun shining on my face, I feel the solitude
and safety alone on my beloved farm but most of all it reminds me of a
time in my childhood when I was happy. All of that from eating a
blackberry. We picked out a bottle of wine and she bought me exactly
what I wanted for supper...the new chicken salad sandwich at Arby's.
We came back to my apartment and watched a movie. What a nice day.

Most of my writing originates from darker sources. When you are in the presence of love, however, the darkness wilts away. It is still there, a silent soldier awaiting its call to duty, but when love enters it must recede. My children taught me what love is, they taught me the strength of love, and
they taught me love is greater than my darkest fears. My children allow
room in my heart to remember my mother in a kinder light. I love my
mother simply because she is my mother. I love my mother because I
choose to love her, despite anything she has done.

Growing up, I had impossibly curly hair, especially for a white girl. The
curls were so tight I could not get a brush near it, so the hair did what it
wanted to do. Of course the style was 1970's poker straight and my hair
would never go near a straight line. There were not straight irons or great
hair products, and I washed it with VO5. The humid air made it frizzy and
the winter air made it electric. My name was Charlotte at a time when the book, "Charlotte's Web" became wildly popular and children were not kind
to me. Some of the children chased me around the playground pulling at
my hair trying to find the spider in "Charlotte's Web" of hair. I hated
having curly hair. This was one of those times my mother was a good
mother to me.

By the time I was in high school, chemical hair straighteners were hitting
the market. It was a very expensive process. I don't remember asking my mother if I could have it done, but one day she took me to the beauty salon
and paid for me to have straight hair. The stylist flipped and feathered it
just like Farah Fawcett and for the first time in my life I felt beautiful! I still recall how much I loved my mother for doing this for me. I appreciated
her taking me to get it done because I knew she did not have much money,
and this time I mattered. She put me first. My senior pictures were
scheduled for the same day, so I have the moment I felt like a movie star memorialized in my high school yearbook. It is the only picture I have of
all my yearbook photos that I did not ink out my picture. I was beautiful.
The straightening process lasted only a few days before my stubborn hair returned to its naturally curly state, but the picture and this wonderful
memory of my mother have endured through the decades. Happy Mother's Day, 2011. And to my mother, wherever you may be, today your memory warms my heart.

No More Pancakes, What I Wish My Mother Kne

Dear Mom

I love you still though you are no longer on this earth. I’ve always loved you, even when I hated you, when I was angry with you, when I needed you, when you disappointed me, when you didn’t live up to my expectations, when you were cold to me and when you abandoned me when I needed to have a mother. You were never going to be a great mom, or even a good mom. I knew this and I hated you for it at times. Through it all, I still loved and needed you. I need you now though I am a grandmother myself.

Your mom died just when you needed her the most. I don’t know if she was a good mother to you. You never talked about her to me. How I wish you did. Maybe we could have bonded over the feelings we each had for our mothers. Maybe I would have had a better understanding of who you are and why you couldn’t bond with me. Maybe I would understand why it appeared as if you didn’t love me. Maybe I would understand why you were unable to show me how much you loved me. I know your childhood was a nightmare. Your brother told me how you slept in the same room as your brothers, never having any of the privacy a young girl needs as she is growing into a woman. He also told me how helpless he felt when your dad came into the bedroom at night, waking you up and taking you somewhere else. Uncle Danny knew why grandpa took you out. It wasn’t a family secret. Your uncles did the same things to his five daughters. Maybe during family events your uncle also sexually abused you. Maybe you were even raped repeatedly. I don’t know. It’s just the way it was. All of the women and young girls were used at the perverted whims of the men in our family. Uncle Danny was afraid for you. Did you cry on his shoulder when you returned? Did you huddle with your brothers, seeking the only comfort you could? When did everything you were meant to be die? That’s when it started. I have a pretty good guess because you had some pretty serious armor on you. You were strong, though I know you felt like you weren’t. I know your emotional development stopped the second your dad did those horrific things to you, things no child should endure. And you did endure.

I do know you did your best to be a mother to all us children. I give you credit for that. I’m sorry I never told you I always admired your strength and I look to your example when I need to be strong myself. You couldn’t save me from the same horrors you faced. You couldn’t face the fact you were as helpless to save your daughter as you were to save yourself. I get it. You couldn’t save me, but you could teach me to be strong. Thank you mother. Because of you, I am strong. I was so strong I was able to save my daughters from the same fate as you and I. They were still sexually abused, but I eventually got them safe from any further harm. It was the worst time in my life knowing my children were being hurt in the same way we were hurt and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it. I did get them safe though. I was able to do that because of you. Your strength has guided me through the worst times in my life and like you, there were many events which occurred that qualified for the worst times in my life. You couldn’t be with me to support me through those times, but you gave me what I needed to make it through. I survived. Thank you.

It is my sincere hope that you have a better life now than you did here on earth. I was so angry with you for so long. I was angrier at you than I was my father. I don’t understand that myself, but I did eventually forgive you for all your failings. As I reflect on your life, I feel a deep sadness. I cry tears for the life you had even today. You didn’t deserve it. You never deserved the horrors you faced. Your life was so hard, you became hardened yourself to survive it. You made it impossible for your children to be a part of your life. I tried. I tried so many times. Each time, I failed to reach you or to relate to you as an adult. For this, I am sorry. I am profoundly damaged and I wasn’t strong enough to deal with your type of damage and the walls you put up around you. I wasn’t strong enough to have a child for a mother. I don’t blame you anymore for being a child in a woman’s body. You were never allowed to grow up. How many mother’s days went by without a single word from your children? This I regret. I was so busy trying to be a good mother myself and so wrapped up dealing with my issues with you I failed to recognize you deserved better than my wrath. If the pain my children cause me is any indication of how you must have felt all those mother’s days that passed without a word, I am intensely sorry I caused you pain. I am sorry that every single time I reached out to you, to try to have a relationship with you, I abandoned you over and over again. I can’t imagine what that felt like for you. I know how it feels to be abandoned by my children. It hurts deeply and intensely. I too have been abandoned over and over by my children. I forgive them every single time they hurt me. I forgive them when they cause me tears. I forget what they did so I can enjoy them when they are close to me. I put my hurt aside and try to never look at it again. I hope you were able to forgive me. I hope now that you are in spirit, you have the wisdom to know I am ashamed at how insensitive and cruelly I treated you. I was trying to survive. I too have armor.

You were still working at age 72 when you died in your sleep. I am grateful for this. You had no friends. You had no children in your life. It takes great courage to live each day without someone to love you. That is the life you made for yourself, or the only life you could tolerate. Maybe there was some safety in that for you. You were a reliable worker. When you didn’t show up for your shift, they called you. When you didn’t answer, they called the police for a wellness check. They found you in an eternal sleep. I’m so happy you had a peaceful death. That is the very least this life owed you. I felt when your spirit leave this earth. Your spirit came to say its earthly goodbye. Thank you for that. Though I wasn’t in your life the last six months you lived, I mourned deeply for you. I mourn you still. I mourn the mother you were meant to be, before your father killed her. I mourn for both of us. My father killed the person I was meant to be too. Because of him, I have spent a good chunk of my life wanting to die. How you made it through your life I’ll never know. My life is so much richer than yours. Your life was devoid of human intimacy from even one person. The few times you opened up your armor and let someone love you, they let you down. They left. They always left. I have been loved. I know what it is to be loved. I know what it is to love. You never had that experience that I am aware of. You talked so little about your life. I don’t know if you had hopes and dreams once. Your life didn’t have any meaning, anything of value in it that you could hold onto. Only two people came to your memorial service. Your favorite son and your youngest son were in attendance. I would have come if I had the plane fare, but even at that your passing you left barely a whisper in the world. You passed as you lived your life, alone and almost invisible. I tried to see you and I think I got glimpses of you now and then.

I know I was a difficult child and neither you nor my father could deal with me. Besides the behavioral issues I exhibited directly due to the sexual abuse, I also had an illness which caused me to have enormous energy. I chatted all the time. I was busy all the time. I had an active and fertile imagination and often became lost in the narratives in my head. I constantly asked “why” about everything and anything. I challenged authority and rules because I couldn’t live with them. The anger, rage, disappointments and sorrows I felt were because I was so sensitive as a child I was overwhelmed in my environment. I never thought much about it, but I was the only child who got to go to YMCA camp and Girl Scout Camp every summer. You and dad needed the break. I was also the only child grandpa took hiking in the Metroparks with him. Sometimes my brothers would come too, but not very often. Grandpa seemed to have boundless patience with me, but he only had to deal with me for a few hours at a time. You and dad needed a break from the hyperactive child I was. Those issues and behaviors flawed my ability to relate to you for many years and ultimately until the day you died.

Neither you nor my father ever understood me. For many years, I didn’t understand myself. I had difficulty controlling my emotions, and I felt emotions intensely. I felt laughter and sorrow with the greatest joy and the deepest grief. I felt deeply and acutely every slight, every unkind word, every injustice. What you saw as teasing, I felt like a knife searing through my soul. I didn’t like being teased and I acted out frequently. Every cruel word said to me created waves of despair. I was drowning in the pain directed at me. I also felt soaring joy at the slightest attention. I desperately wanted someone, anyone to be proud of me. What I had didn’t have a name back then. I have a condition called Attention Deficit Disorder and it rained down havoc on a child who was also suffering sexual abuse throughout childhood. I would be in my forties before I would be diagnosed and treated. I am still working on healing from childhood traumas. I will be healing the rest of my life. Thank you for giving me the strength to do what you could not; heal. Thank you for sending me to camp each year, though it was expensive. I loved going to camp. No one abused me there. I was praised for my efforts and wanted to please my camp counselors. I would have stayed the whole summer if I could. At camp, I was given the shred of self esteem and the confidence of my convictions I would need in later life.

Thank you for giving me the relationship with my grandfather, a privileged relationship my brothers would never know. My grandfather would give me the one thing I didn’t know I had in life; he told me I had choices. I may not like the choices I had, but I always had choices. Most of my life has been spent deciding between a bad choice or a worse one, but it empowered me in a way nothing else could. Because of the time I spent with my grandfather, I would have the wisdom to meet the challenges life was intent on throwing at me. He also taught me that no matter what my life would be, everyone had sorrow and pain in their life. No one escapes it. It is part of the living and dying process of being human. I felt less alone. I never drowned in self pity for very long. I lived by the motto “It’s ok to have a pity party, just don’t stay too long.” I could grant myself some time to feel the magnitude of sorrow in my life, and I gave myself the opportunity to come back out of it. There was a door that never closed. No matter what I was feeling or experiencing, I never let it stop me from moving on from it or growing in spite of it. I have you to thank for that.

There is so much I wish I could have told you, but I’m telling you now. Maybe the words will reach you. Maybe now that you are free from the solitary and painful life you lived, you could see your life with some clarity and my place in it. Maybe you are already in a new life, you reincarnated to a newborn baby or a young child. If you are, I hope this new life is charmed. I hope you feel the love and support of your parents. I hope you feel loved by all the people in your life. You’ve had enough pain for many lifetimes. I regret my role in causing you pain and I wish I could change it. We were two damaged people trying to connect with one another but we couldn’t bridge the divide. We each brought with us the past. We brought with us the pain, the memories and the survival instincts which shielded us from being hurt again. I could no more break through your armor than you could break through mine. Our fathers set us on a path when they crawled into our beds. Neither one of us could take another road. The only difference is, when there was a fork on that path, I took the road less traveled. I had to break away from you long enough to comfort my pain and to save my children from the same path as you and I.

I saved my daughters when you could not save yours, but it was from your strength that I was able to face my own nightmares in order to ensure my daughters had a chance for something better. Mom, all three of my daughters have a chance because you gave me what I needed to get them safe. To survive. Oh, they have their battle scars but they missed the war. They have so many people who love them. They know what it is to love and be loved in their life, something you were denied for 72 years. I think you would be proud of my girls if you had the chance to be a grandmother to them. I know you would love them, even though they are flawed themselves. They are intelligent and independent. They are beautiful. They are carving out their own lives in this mad and crazy world. I sacrificed my life so that they could have one and I have no regrets. I was able to do that because you showed me the way. As helpless and damaged as you were, you managed to do that for me. I am so grateful.

I live my life being grateful because I know the abyss. I know the darkness, the fear, the terror. When I allow myself to think of what we faced, I am amazed we survived it. The blackness consumes your life and there isn’t a part of it that’s safe, that isn’t touched by it. You never escaped your darkness, but I found the light and am able to live in it. I am grateful for the many times I have felt loved. I am hurt by the knowledge you couldn’t find a way out. I am hurt by the knowledge that sometimes when you tried to get out, I pushed you back in. I didn’t mean to do that to you. In a way, you were the ladder that helped me get out and live in the light; in the brilliance and happiness this life has to offer. I am sorry I had to step on you to get out. I am sorry I wasn’t able to reach down a hand and bring you up with me. Maybe you knew you would never get out. Maybe being the ladder was the only thing you could do for me. I got out mom; and though I still suffer the heartache and sorrow the abyss left with me, I can quell the muddy waters and bathe in life’s richness. I can do that because of you.

I am grateful for the richness in my life. I am grateful to be loved and to be able to love in return. I am grateful for the light. I am grateful for the strides I have made to heal my wounds. I am grateful for feeling the pain life tends to throw at me. I am grateful for the happiness I feel. I am grateful I made it out of the abyss when so many don’t survive it. I am grateful I didn’t try to cope with drugs and alcohol. I am grateful for the nicks and cracks in my armor. I am grateful for the richness life has to offer. I am grateful I appreciate the sunlight and the smell of freshly mowed grass. I am grateful I can see the beauty in the flowers and to smell their aroma as I pass. I am grateful for the courage it took to get my children safe and I am grateful I was able to do what it took to get them there. I am grateful you were the ladder. This, and so much more, is what I wish you knew. Happy Mother’s Day 2018.

The First Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is the day I had been dreading since my mother died in June. It would be the first Thanksgiving without her. My mother was the driving force in my family, and for me, mom was the sun, the moon, the stars and everything brilliant in the universe. I drove up to the cabin, telling my brothers and sisters I had to work so I didn’t have to be reminded mom wasn’t at the table. It had been a year of loss. My marriage crumbled, I had a miscarriage, and I had even lost myself. When mom died, she took something of me with her. I didn’t know who I was without her on this earth. I didn’t know how to function not hearing her gentle voice guiding my day. I didn’t know how to be happy without her gregarious laughter. Mom’s laughter was infectious, you couldn’t help laughing yourself, even if you didn’t know the joke. I knew I should be thankful for something, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Just the thought of the rest of my life without her brought hot raindrops running down my face, nearly blinding me. I couldn’t breathe.

It was unseasonably warm and the leaves clung to the branches. They were shades of every fall color, but to me they looked dull. They were a reminder of the death and lifelessness winter would soon bring. I pushed on the gas pedal and watched it climb to sixty, seventy and then eighty. Maybe I would lose control of the car and crash. Ninety, a hundred, the speed of the landscape became blurry. Instinct took over and I slowed for the next curve up the winding road. As much as I wanted the abyss of death, I couldn’t let my mom down. She wouldn’t want me to end my life, not on purpose, and not accidentally on purpose. Familiar road signs came and went. There was something cathartic in the drive. I couldn’t be with my family. I couldn’t pretend that life went on when I missed her so much. They say it gets easier, but I can’t see a way through the grief. How does it get easier? My mom will never answer the phone when I call, she won’t greet me at the door when I visit and she won’t ever make me a cup of cocoa ever again.

I pulled into the narrow lane leading to our family cabin. I passed row after row of empty cabins which were shuttered for the season. There were a few people who lived here year round but with the nearest town nearly an hour away, most preferred life in a city where there was more to do than watch the snowflakes fall upon the fading grass. The hours of wintertime would be hard to fill when there was only the sound of crisping glass echoing in the freezing night and the crackling sound of wood burning in the fireplace. I pulled to a stop and sat in the car. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go in after all.

Everywhere I went, a memory of mom taunted my pain, daring me to give up my grief. I watched auburn leaves dancing across the porch and the leaves reminded me of my mother’s brilliant hair. Grandpop always said God never invented a better color than the color of mom’s hair. He found a leaf once that very color. He kept it pressed in his bible. Mom put that bible, filled with grandpop’s most precious memories, tucked securely in his crossed arms before they closed the lid of his coffin. She told me she wanted him to have his best memories with him when he arrived at the pearly gates. I hoped Grandpop remembered to greet mom when she arrived, her head of flaming hair waving around her shoulders.

I opened the car door to the gentle rustling leaves. I heard some birds off in the distance, flying away from the chill in the air. The stillness was comforting. I didn’t have to pretend I was all right, that life without my mother was acceptable or even bearable. If I listened hard enough, I could almost hear her laughter in the distance. She loved being here, walking in the woods and around the lake. She loved racing Angel, her little Yorkie, back to the house for a treat. Angel always won, but they both acted like it was ever a contest. Mom couldn’t bear to get another dog after Angel died. She never raced back to the cabin after that, preferring to take the time to count the leaves and take notice of every blossom as she walked past. Mom knew every tree, every bush and every flower. Mom knew every seasonal neighbor, who had kids, who were expecting kids, who loved who under the starlit sky and who wouldn’t be back next season. I could feel mom in the air. It was almost as if she had never died.

I gathered my groceries and unlocked the door. There wasn’t time to entertain my grief, I had to get everything inside and a fire going or it would be a very cold night. There were only a couple hours of daylight left. There weren’t any streetlamps to light your path. The sky was overcast so when the sun went down, night would fall hard. There is no darkness greater than the dark night of one’s soul, and I was surely going to face that tonight. I opened the door and expected to smell the musty odor of a dusty cabin. I didn’t think anyone had been here this past summer. Instead, I inhaled the familiar smell of lavender. Mom loved the lavender bushes outside the cabin windows. There were several pieces of lavender still hanging to dry, just where my mom had left them. The cabin remained untouched since the last time she was here. Her favorite sunhat hung from a nail by the door. Her boots and sandals were neatly placed underneath. Time stood still in the cabin. No one told it she wasn’t coming back.

I put my groceries away. There was a half gallon of chunky milk in the fridge, along with some rotted vegetables. I grabbed some Lysol and cleaned out the remnants of my mother’s last meal, now an unrecognizable mess. I threw everything out, containers and all. I put my bottle of vodka in the freezer, and opened a Sterling Hill pinot noir. I poured myself a glass, draining it without stopping for a breath. I poured another and quickly drained that as well. I started a fire and it wasn’t long before the heated tendrils reached out to touch the cool night air, warming it. I sat in my mother’s favorite overstuffed chair and sobbed with great heaving gasps. I wailed and let my grief release all the pain I had been holding in since my mother’s heart attack. I cried into my glass of wine, wiping away my tears on my sleeve until I didn’t have the energy to release one more tear. It was exhausting.

I went into her bedroom. An outfit was lain out on her bed as if she would be back soon to put it on. I picked it up and threw it in the fire. I went into the bathroom and her worn shirt was on top of the hamper. I picked it up, burying my face in it and inhaled deeply. It smelled like her. I took off my sweater and put her top on next to my skin. This is the closest I would ever be to her for the rest of my life. I put my sweater on over mom’s blouse. I opened up the medicine cabinet and threw away her old prescriptions. I picked up her brush and ran it through my chestnut hair like mom did when she was braiding it. I pretended mom was still brushing my hair. If felt good to pretend that just for a moment, it was her hand guiding the brush. I heard a knock at the door.

I went to see who would interrupt my solitude. I peeked out the window in case it was a nefarious sort. It was Mrs. Waterson, one of the few people who lived here year round. I don’t know why she would want to live here all alone since the death of her husband, especially since no one would know if she needed medical help, but it didn’t seem to bother her. I had barely opened the door when she burst through, grabbing me in a fierce hug.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry about your mom. She was one of the good ones.” I lingered in her embrace. The Waterson’s were my summer family. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral. No one came up this summer and it just wasn’t the same without you all. I get it though, your mom loved being here and it’s tough to be around the things and people your mom loved so much. Want some company?” She asked as she breezed by me. I didn’t have a chance to tell her what I wanted was to be alone. “I’ll make us some tea.” She went about her tea making, ignoring the open bottle of wine on the table. I pulled out a couple of mugs for us, and mom’s mug too. It wouldn’t feel right to have a talk without her mug sitting at the table.

“Honey, what are you doing up here without your family, and on Thanksgiving for heaven’s sake?” She asked sincerely.

“I couldn’t deal with the family celebrating a holiday in which you are compelled to be thankful for something. This has been the worst year of my life. I have nothing to be thankful for and I’m not going to pretend I do.” I replied. I spooned way too much sugar in my tea. “Really, this year has sucked. My marriage is gone, my mom is gone and I almost had a baby, which by the way is gone! So tell me, what the hell do I have to be thankful for?” I said with far more force than I intended.

“Oh honey, you have had a time of it, no doubt about it. I’m sorry you’ve had such pain in so short of a time. I wish I could tell you life gets easier, but the fact is, life is damn hard. Just when you think you catch a break, you have a hard time catching your breath. Sap and I finished raising the kids, we paid off the mortgage and thought we could sit back and enjoy the lake and the grandkids. We did for a few months before the cancer came. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. Hell, most of the time life isn’t fair.” She patted my hand. “But you are right about one thing, you shouldn’t have to pretend to be thankful when you aren’t.”

Tears streamed down my face. Mrs. Waterson got up to get me a tissue. “I can’t do life without her. I can’t get up each morning and think I have something to look forward to, like I have a life, or goals, or anything that makes life worth living. I’m all alone! She left me alone!” I was surprised by the amount of anger I had welled up inside.

“I’ve known your mother since we were children and our parents came up to this lake together. I know she’s dead. My brain knows it but my heart can’t quite come around to that idea. Your mom has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I still think the phone ringing is going to be her, telling me about her next big idea. I look over to this cabin and I think of your mom just sitting in her chair, reading the latest Stephen King or Stephen Koontz book. When I saw the smoke swirling around the chimney I swear for a moment I thought it was her. I know she isn’t here, but it still feels like she is. I loved your mom like she was my own sister and truth be told, her death hit me harder than did Sap’s. The one thing I do know is that your mom did not leave you alone. She left you with a lifetime of her love and strength enough to get you through the rest of your life. People aren’t meant to stay by your side your whole life through. They are meant to pass through, and hopefully leave you a better person than they found. Your mom did that for you”

I pondered her words. I feel mom around me everywhere I go. Maybe it hurts so bad because I can’t come to terms with what my mind tells me is true. My mind says my mom is dead. She is gone. She’s not here. Everything else, especially my heart, tells me my mom is still with me. She’s in my every breath, my every thought. She’s in the air that I breathe. My nostrils smell her in the lilacs, her scent remains on her clothes. Society is telling me to move on, that she is gone but she is everywhere I am. There are remnants of her looking back at me in the mirror. My voice is her voice. I have her idioms in my speech. I catch myself saying her words and I do some of my daily tasks they way she did them, how she taught me to do them. How can she be gone? How can I move on?

“Well honey, I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but I can’t have you spending Thanksgiving alone with them. I’ll expect you over to dinner around 4pm tomorrow. Colton is bringing dinner. I know he’d love to see you again.” She got up, clearing the table of our teacups. She gave me another hug before she left out the door. I poured myself the rest of my wine. I was suddenly very tired. I felt as if I couldn’t keep my eyes open another minute. I downed this glass of wine as easily as the first and readied myself for bed. I decided to sleep in mom’s room. After all, in a way it is my room now. I drifted off to sleep with an ease I’ve not felt in months.

My mother appeared to me dressed in a flowing white gown. Her hair lay on her shoulders, moving slightly with the breeze. She was covered in yellow and white light so brilliant the sun paled in comparison and yet it didn’t burn my eyes. She held out her arms to me and I wanted to go to her but I was just out of reach. I yelled for her to come closer so I could reach her. I stretched my arms as far as they would go but she stayed just out of reach. She crossed her arms over her heart and then she drifted away. She never spoke, not a single word. When I awakened, I was crying, with tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know you could cry in your sleep. I had a happy life with my parents. I knew little of sorrow. My heart was broken, shattered. I was going to be shattered until my dying day. I continued crying into my pillow, in the very place mom’s head had once lain. I did not want to get up. I saw no point to it. I wondered if I could lay here and will myself to die. I read somewhere that’s what the Native American elders did. They picked a day and time to die, and on that day they performed some rituals with their family and took to their bed. They quietly died in their sleep so peacefully their blankets remained undisturbed.

All across the nation, moms were getting up to prepare a feast for family gatherings. There would be laughter, love and fun. Everyone would eat too much. Not me, not here and not today. Not ever again. I hadn’t laughed in months. When I smiled, it was forced. When my mom died, everyone was so nice, so caring. It was overwhelming when all I wanted was to be left alone. I had to go back to work the very next week and it was miserable to walk in the office with everyone staring at me with pity in their eyes. As the days went on, I walked into the office because that was what I had to do, what was expected of me. I went through the motions of living. The doctor said I was depressed and put me on an antidepressant, but it didn’t help so I quit taking it. Friends would call, inviting me out here and there but I declined all invitations. It wasn’t long before the phone stopped ringing. Everyone says it gets easier. When I go home at night, I still cry as if I’d just heard the news. When the phone does ring, I still expect it to be her. When I go to the mall, I think I see her in the women who pass by. It’s not getting easier. The grief isn’t passing.

I got up and dressed. I got some fruit for breakfast and pulled a box off the shelf. In it were decades of pictures. In this box was every person, every event important in my life. Here was mom and dad playing cards at the picnic table with the Watersons. Here they were fishing on a lazy day off the boat. Here were my brothers, sisters and me playing. I smiled without realizing it. These are good memories, precious memories. All my birthday parties were spent here, surrounded by all my summer friends. To think I used to hate the drive to the cabin. It seemed to take so long. It was too long to be cooped up with a bunch of kids picking at one another with too much energy and nowhere to spend it.

I was lost in memories when there was a knock on the door. It had to be Mrs. Waterson. She’s the only one who knows I’m here. I didn’t tell anyone else. I opened the door to her bright sunny face, cheeks flushed with the cool morning air.

“Good morning dear!” She said with a light cheery voice. “I brought you some coffee and home baked cookies.” She didn’t bring me some coffee, she brought the entire pot and the cookies were off a cookie dough roll bought at the local grocery. She wasn’t lying. They were home baked. She looked at me, waiting for an invitation to come in. She was too sweet to turn away.

“Of course Mrs. Waterson, why don’t you come in?” I asked. “I was just looking over some pictures. Coffee and cookies would be perfect.”

“Why don’t you call me Elsie, now that you’re all grown? Feels like we’re friends. Mrs. Waterson is too formal.” She said.

“All right, Elsie it is.” I went to the cupboards to get some mugs and sugar. “Do you like cream with your coffee? I’m afraid all I have is the powdered cream, I didn’t bring a lot of groceries with me.”

“No, honey. Just a little sugar is all I need, the real stuff if you have it. Never did like the thought of fake sugar.” She replied. “I know you probably came up here to be alone, and I’ll give you plenty of time to do that, but too much time alone isn’t good for anyone, especially when you are grieving.”

I raised my eyebrow and it did not go unnoticed. I put the mugs on the table and she filled them both. “I know you are grieving the loss of your mom, and truth be told, I’m still grieving the loss of mine and she’s been gone nearly twenty years. You don’t stop missing your mom, no matter how old you are when she passes. I promise you though, it does get easier but it’s real hard until that happens.”

“And how long until that happens?” I inquired. “It’s almost as fresh as the day she died. I feel as if I’ve become the walking dead. I’m not living, I’m existing.”

“It’s different for everyone dear. I don’t know how long it took with me. One day I was able to think of my mom and the memory made me happy instead of sad. Oh, I’m still sad sometimes and I still miss her, but I know we’ll be together again on the other side, whatever that other side may be. You have to let yourself grieve for her as long as it takes. Grief is something you just have to get through. No one can do it for you, and not many people know how to help. It’s the hardest thing to do and you have to do it alone for the most part. Now you, well dear, you got hit with the trifecta. You lost your mom, your husband and your baby. I wouldn’t expect you to bounce right on back from that. You didn’t just lose your mom, you lost the life you expected.” She said.

“I miscarried, it wasn’t like it was a real baby. I never held her. I don’t even know if it was a her. As for Tom, well, he doesn’t deal well if life isn’t perfect. When I didn’t get back up on the proverbial horse, he walked away. I wasn’t even surprised when he did. No one was.” I said.

“Maybe not dear, maybe you didn’t hold your baby, but from the minute you knew you were pregnant you had dreams of what motherhood would be, what your baby would be, and you expected to see your child grow up. Maybe you knew what a weak man Tom was, but you still expected to have children with him and to grow old by his side. That’s what we expect when we are married. We take comfort in knowing how our life will unfold. I was lucky with Sal, we had some tough times, but we made it through. Your parents were lucky, they kept it together through their tough times. Marriage is hard. You don’t understand how hard until you are tested and a lot of people fail the tests life throws our way. When you are building a family, you have the rest of your life planned out. Those plans are gone and now your future is a blank slate. That’s frightening. It’s made worse when you expected Tom to be there for you through the loss of your child and the death of your mother and he wasn’t.” Her words were comforting.

“No, and I feel betrayed. And I’m angry! I’m SO angry! I don’t even know what to do with all the anger swirling around inside of me and everywhere I go I have to be what someone else expects me to be. I want to scream, but if I started screaming, I might never stop.” It just came out. I didn’t even know I was angry until that very moment, but there it was.

“You can scream here. Go on! Scream! There’s no one around to hear, it’s just you and me.” She suggested.

I blushed. “No, that’s just silly.” I replied.

“Ahhhh!” She screamed out long and loud. The scream startled me. “Go on now, scream!” She demanded.

I screamed with her.

“Louder!” She yelled.

I screamed louder.

“No, from your stomach, scream it out. Put some effort into it!” She poked her finger at my stomach and I sucked it in and let it out. “That’s it, you can do it!” My voice was getting hoarse, but it felt good. I screamed until I ran out of air. It felt weird, and silly, and good. It felt good.

“See there?” Asked Elsie. “You screamed and you stopped. How do you feel now?”

“Strangely enough, I do feel a little better.” I said. “Would plotting revenge help? How about a revenge plan?” I was teasing, but a part of me wasn’t.

“You can think about revenge all you want, even entertain the ways you might hurt him, but never take action. It won’t help you heal. That’s what you need. It takes time.” She replied.

“But I’m all alone now!” I cried out with a fresh torrent of tears. Elsie got up to get me a tissue. She didn’t say a word, she just stood beside me, rubbing my back until I composed myself.

“The last thing you are is alone.” She said once I had dried my tears. “You feel alone because the one person you counted on to be with you through the miscarriage and divorce isn’t here to comfort you, but you are not alone. Your siblings lost their mom too. I lost your mom. You can share your grief with us.”

“You don’t understand, I had a dream about her last night and it seemed to real. It was so real I woke up crying.” I explained.

“Tell me about it.” She said.

I told her about the dream, how I was reaching to my mom who was always just past my reach.

“The meaning of that dream is clear. Your mother’s spirit is close to you, and always will be but if you want to reach her you only have to look in your heart. You carry your love for her there, and as long as you love her, she will always be nearby.” She said. “And even though you can’t see it, the lifetime of love she had for you, that she felt for you surrounds you still. Only her body has died, not the love you shared.”

I was surprised by just how much sense that made. Why couldn’t I see that before?

“Well, honey, I’ve got some things to do before Colton brings our feast. I’m always here if you need me and you’re the closest thing to a daughter I will ever have. I can’t replace your mom, no one can, but if you need me I’m here for you. I’ll see you at four o’clock then.” She said as she rose to leave.

“Yes, I’ll come over then, and thank you. I do feel a little better.” I said.

“No need to thank me, it’s what friends do. I’ve known you all your life and just because your mom is no longer with us doesn’t mean the friendship ends. Besides, I told Colton you were up here and he can’t wait to see you. It’s been a long time since you two last saw one another.” She said.

Mrs. Waterson, Elsie, walked out my door and it was true, I did feel better. I even felt like being productive. I cranked on my playlist and began to clean the cabin. Months of spiders and dust needed to be swept away, and it felt cathartic to clean. The next time I looked at the clock it was three in the afternoon. The day went by in a heartbeat. I needed to get a bath and cleaned up. I hadn’t seen Colton in years, and I didn’t want to look like something to cat dragged in. I drew the bath and tossed in the dried lilacs my mom had hung. The hot water drew out the scent and it was almost like mom was here. The smell of lilac wafted into the rising steam.

When I was a child, I had a crush on Colton. He was three years older and was the cool kid all the other kids wanted to be. He attracted people to him. He was always surrounded by boys and girls alike but he didn’t seem to know he was the king of the cabin kids. He was easy to be with, making everyone around him laugh. He read The Hardy Boys and I read Nancy Drew. We would argue who solved mysteries better, girls or boys. We never did agree which one that was, but it was fun to compare the mysteries we read. It took two boys to solve mysteries that one girl solved. Nancy Drew was the clear winner.

I dried my hair and put on some light makeup. I had to admit I was a bit nervous to see him again. I’d heard he had become a doctor, on staff at a hospital a couple of hours away from the cabins. He was engaged at one point but the marriage never materialized. I wondered what happened. I also wondered if the adult version of Colton was as handsome as I remember the younger version was. All the girls dreamed on marrying him one day, and we all practiced writing Mrs. Colton Waterson in our notebooks. He never seemed interested in girls as anything but friends. Many girls tried to make him their boyfriend, and every single one of them failed. The closer it got to four o’clock, the more nervous I became. I went to the freezer for a shot of liquid courage. It was time to go see my childhood friend.

I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Who was Colton Waterson now? Would he still have the boyish charm that captured the hearts of every girl by the lake? Would he have that easy sense of humor that made you smile without realizing you felt better? Would he have become hardened by all the tragedy life throws in your face? My heartbeat quickened and I felt my face blush. Even after all these years, I still felt my girlish crush. Before I could knock on the door, it swung wide open and Mrs. Waterson~Elsie~scooped me up in her arms with an enthusiastic hug.

“Right on time my dear! Come in, come in! Colton is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on our feast. Here, let me take your coat. There’s a nice fire going, just right to take the chill out of the air.” She practically undressed me. I looked around the room. It hasn’t changed since my earliest childhood memories, save for the addition of photographs. I could see the age progression of Colton from birth to adulthood on the walls. He turned into a handsome man. Elsie changed the furniture around a little, but the house was frozen in time. It felt like home now just as it felt like a second home then. Mrs. Waterson felt like the second mom I’d always had. I’d forgotten how close we were. That’s what distance does, it separates you from people who matter. Your life gets busy and you forget what lies in the past, or rather who lies in the past.

The dining table was set with fall tableware and the centerpiece was a vase filed with huge sunflowers and baby’s breath. I am remembering now. Sunflowers were Mr. Waterson’s favorite flower. My mom and Elsie used to playfully argue which flower was best. My mom was argue that lilacs were the trumpets of spring, bursting out in glorious color and fragrance from winter’s long silence. Elsie would say that sunflowers were the salt of the earth, beautiful and life affirming because you could eat the seeds. This flower provided nourishment and could fend off starvation in the long winter months following. Mother would fire back lilacs provided something better than seeds, lilacs were the sign of hope and promise just when winter was ending. It was the signal of better days ahead. They made for good friends, these two. Mom saw the promise of life while Elsie saw the practical needs of life. Mom was the yin to her yang. How could Elsie find balance without my mom? How could she not be lonely now that Sal and mom were gone?

“Colton, our guest is here!” Elsie yelled. “Come out and greet her.” Colton stepped out from the kitchen. He was all grown up. He came over and embraced me in his muscular arms. He towered over me at 6’4” or so. His dark hair fell into his boyish face. He didn’t look his age. It felt good to be in his arms, like the world couldn’t touch me here. I clung to him, not wanting this moment to end.

“Let me take a look at you! I can’t tell you how happy I felt when mom said you were up here. It’s been too long since we’ve seen one another.” He said. “You aren’t that scrawny little girl anymore. Do you still like mysteries?” He asked.

I can’t believe he remembered. “Not so much anymore.” I replied. “I like to know how the story ends. I like happy endings.”

“Me too,” he agreed. That’s why I became a doctor, so I could help make those happy endings.”

“I heard you are a doctor, congratulations! But don’t you see an awful lot of suffering? Surely you see people who die. How is that a happy ending?” I wanted to know how he could stay so optimistic in the face of death.

“Happy endings aren’t always of the Disney variety. Sometimes a happy ending is getting to say goodbye to someone you love. Sometimes a happy ending is recovering after a tragedy. Sometimes a happy ending is the ending. There are all kinds of happy endings but yes, I do see heartache, pain and misery. I do my best to alleviate it when I can. I was so sorry to hear of your mom passing. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, I was on call that night.” He said.

“I can’t believe she’s gone. It’s why I came up to the cabin why my family is celebrating Thanksgiving at Jake’s house. I couldn’t bear to see that empty chair at the table, her chair.” I hoped I didn’t sound as desperate as I felt.

“That’s understandable. I’m glad you are here. We can catch up a bit. Dinner is ready. There’s a chilled bottle of chardonnay on the table, help yourself while I bring out the food.” He went into the kitchen and came out with his arms laden with piping hot food. It looked delicious. I suddenly had an appetite. My stomach growled fiercely. I hadn’t eaten much in the last week.

Elsie sat down at the head of the table and I took my seat at the side. Colton sat down opposite of me. “I remember the first holiday without dad.” Colton said. “It wasn’t the same. I guess none of the holidays are the same but mom and I get together and celebrate as if they were. We’re all we have now. How’s the rest of your family? Mom gives me updates, so I know Jake is an electrician and he married his high school sweetheart. He has two kids, right?”

“Yes, he and Margie have a boy and a girl, with another boy on the way. Margie is due around Christmas. They just bought a house in Scofield. Margie is quitting her job at the law firm to be a full time mom. I can’t imagine her as the soccer mom type, but she says that’s what she wants. Patty is a flight attendant, but she is at Jake’s for the holiday. She has a boyfriend, but isn’t interested in getting married yet. James is getting his PhD in anthropology. He says you can’t get anywhere in the field without it but he is in Israel doing some type of internship. He couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving. With mom gone, Jake and Margie have taken over as the heart of the family. They are the only ones of us that have a home.” I said. “The turkey is really good, so moist. Did you cook it yourself?” I asked him.

“Oh, no! I would burn a boiled egg. The past few years I’ve ordered Thanksgiving from a local caterer and brought it up here to mom. She makes me nervous living up here by herself but we spend the holidays together and I get up here when I can. I just reheat it. They really do a nice job, don’t they?” He asked. “And what about you? Are you still at the lab?”

“Yeah. We just accepted a new research study in neuropharmaceuticals. We are studying a new drug for dementia. I hope it works because if it does it will provide the first real breakthrough for Alzheimer’s. It’s exciting to be a part of it.” I said.

“What a coincidence!” Elsie exclaimed. “Colton just got his credentials in gerontology. He and some other docs are opening up a practice specializing in aging. He says there are too many biochemical changes in human physiology to treat us older folks the same as younger adults. We need docs who understand those changes. I’m so proud of him.” She leaned over and tossed his hair with her hand.

“Mom!” Colton said sheepishly. “Not the hair!” He tried to admonish his mom, but he took on a slight blush. He poured us all another round of wine. It was a good chardonnay, probably high end. It went down like melted butter.

“So what about you? What’s been keeping you busy besides being a doctor?” I asked.

“I don’t have a great deal of time on my hands to do much of anything else. I don’t read mysteries anymore unless medical mysteries count. Professional journals are all I have time to read. My vacations I spend with mom. We went to Greece last year and saw the Parthenon. Before that we went white water rafting in the Poconos. One year I took mom parasailing in the Bahamas and another we went zip lining in the Amazon rain forest.” He said.

I looked at him in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine this slip of a woman doing all those things. “Don’t give me that look. Mom plans the vacations and I just go along with her.” He laughed.

“It’s true” Elsie laughed. “I plan them all. If I left it up to him, he would have me on some senior cruise ship listening to The Backstreet Boys on tour. I’m not old enough for cruise ships just yet. Did your mom ever tell you about the first time we went camping?”

“I don’t think so.” I said.

“Oh my! She was something. She didn’t know squat about camping. Our junior high history teacher, Mr Price, had an outdoor adventure club and the highlight of the club was a canoeing trip at the end of the school year. We were both so excited. She asked Mr. Price if there was running water at the camp site. Mr. Price told her there was but he had a sense of humor and meant the running water was the Ohio River. She was dead serious, trying to plan for what we would need. Your mom took everything so literal back then. On the day we were to leave, she brought a tent and her supplies for the weekend to school. We got to the campground just before nightfall that Friday and set about making our campsite when it became apparent she had forgotten the tent at school. That was the first problem. Poor Mr. Price had to drive his camper into town to get a makeshift tent. He bought some plastic he hung over some rope he tied between a couple of trees and that was our tent. Your mom asked him where the fountain was. She brought powdered koolaid for us to drink. That was problem two. The running water that made the Ohio River was far too brackish to drink. Mr. and Mrs. Price gave us some sodas. She paused to take a couple of bites of her dinner.

Elsie was laughing as she remembered. I could imagine mom as a teenager, woefully ill equipped to be a camper. Mom always said her idea of roughing it was a hotel room without a coffee maker.

“I think I’ve heard this story before.” Colton said. “Don’t worry mom, I won’t give away the ending. There was a twinkle in his eye. Elsie hadn’t gotten to the best part of the story yet.

“We had arrived at the campsite around suppertime. Someone got a big fire going and most everyone brought hot dogs they stuck on a stick and held them over the fire. Not your mom, she brought ground beef to make hamburgers. She had this contraption like a sandwich cage to hold them over the fire. They were pretty good hamburgers, but I thought she was going to burn herself when the grease caught fire. We have very well done burgers but we didn’t care. We spent the night playing with our classmates, and at the end of the night we all sat around the campfire while people took turns telling scary stories. At one point your mom disappeared and didn’t come back for a long time. I thought she had gone to sleep. Some people brought chocolate and marshmallows to make smores and I was getting hungry. When I went back to our tent for a snack, I found out what she had been doing. Bringing snacks was my job. Your mom got into the Bugles and ate then entire box! She didn’t even leave me the crumbs. I was so mad at your mom I was steaming, but you can’t stay mad at your mom. No matter what she did, you just couldn’t stay mad. We went to sleep soon after that. Your mom fell asleep right off but I was hungry and I didn’t have any Bugles to eat.”

“We awakened the next morning by a bustle of activity. The bonfire was going and everyone was getting some breakfast. That was when I found out your mother brought eggs for our breakfast. Eggs! To cook over a campfire!” Elsie broke out into laughter and I caught myself laughing with her.

“So your mom decides she is going to use the cast iron skillet she brought to fry up some eggs but I decided to boil my eggs in another pan your mother brought. I should have been the captain of the camping trip because your mother didn’t have the first clue. I filled my pan with water from the river, the only running water around, and set it on some coals. I was half mad from starvation. I didn’t have a good supper, your mom had eaten all our snacks, and I couldn’t see how she was going to fry up eggs on an open fire. Several other kids were around the fire when Craig Tompkins blew his nose and threw the tissue into the fire. At the exact moment he threw the tissue, a little breeze picked up the tissue and it blew right into your mom’s eggs!” We all laughed.

“Your mom was horrified! She looked at Craig, who genuinely looked sorry, but she didn’t say anything. Her face said it all. Poor thing turned over the skillet. She wasn’t getting any breakfast. I almost felt sorry for her, but I was still miffed she ate all the Bugles. I did offer her one of my boiled eggs, but she didn’t want one. I know you mom, she had her heart set on fried eggs and that’s what she wanted. She kept me company at the fire. When my eggs were done, I cracked them open. They were gray, almost black! They looked awful. The river water looked clean enough, but my eggs were ruined. Neither one of us were going to get any breakfast today. We were going to go hungry, but we were far too excited to go canoeing to let it bother us. We helped pack up the campsite. Some of the parents were going to drive all our belongings and cars to the next camping site while we canoed down the river.”

“There was an informal race to see who could get to the camp site first. There was a set of parents in the lead, another set of parents in the middle, and Mr and Mrs. Price held up the back end. Neither your mom or I had ever been canoeing before, it was all new to us. We were never going to master the great outdoors. We couldn’t keep the canoe going straight, instead hitting one bank and the other. Mr. and Mrs. Price actually had to pull off to the side of the banks from time to time to avoid getting ahead of us. You know how competitive your mom is,” Elsie said as she nodded in my direction. “She was at her wits end knowing we were in last place. We couldn’t even keep the canoe upright. We kept tipping it and had to chase the canoe down the river to catch it. I swear we spent more time in the water than in the canoe!” Elsie was back in time, remembering the list of calamities that bonded two teenage girls to a lifetime of friendship.

“We finally made it to the campsite. We ate whatever was left, which wasn’t all that much. Mostly we went around and mooched off of other people. We all sat around the campfire telling scary stories, but everyone was exhausted so story time let up earlier than the night before. Your mom didn’t make it past the first story. She was sound asleep when I made it to our see through tent. Your mom looked like such an angel when she slept. You would never know what a mischievous little imp she was when she was awake. I went to sleep beside her and before we knew it morning had come again.”

“We didn’t have anything for breakfast, all our eggs were broken so Mr. and Mrs. Price took us to their camper for some cereal. We wolfed down three bowls each! Mrs. Price laughed, but we were starving. We hadn’t had a decent meal since lunch Friday at school. Mr. Price tried to give us some tips on rowing our canoe, hoping to avoid the long journey we had the day before. There was another informal race to reach the end of the line. Your mom was determined to give winning another try. We got on our swimsuits and shorts and shoved off in our boat.”

How had I never heard this story before? It sounded just like mom, who couldn’t be a camper if she tried. There are two kinds of people in this world, ones who can camp, and one who will always be city people, never far away from the convenience of city life. My mother was a city girl. She loved the cabin and being by the lake, but give her a Sunday at the mall and she was in her element. I couldn’t believe this was my mother going canoeing though. She hated water! That was something I didn't’ find out until I was nearly grown. My summers were filled with endless days and nights at the cabin and swimming in the lake. Mom took us swimming and made sure we had swimming lessons. Mom wasn’t a strong swimmer and wanted to make sure we could hold our own. There wasn’t a lifeguard on duty at the lake. Everyone was responsible for their own children. It seemed every few years, you would hear of a child drowning. We were well into our teens before mom would let us go swimming by ourselves. Even then, we had to have a swimming buddy. As we got older, mom quit swimming. She would sit at the edge of the water, but she didn’t go into the water any further than that. She never told me why she seemed to be afraid of the water, but she made sure all us kids enjoyed swimming, even if that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Elsie continued with her story. “We did much better the second day, we had more control over the canoe and could go long stretches in a straight line. Some of the twists and turns of the river gave us a bit of trouble, but we weren’t in last place. We even passed some other people. We were singing some songs, rowing in rhythm. There was a popular song a the time called “Rock the Boat.” We sang that, only your mom starting swaying side to side with the song. Rock the boat, don’t tip the boat over, rock the boat she sang and the boat swayed side to side. I started yelling at your mom to cut it out, I didn’t want to tip the boat and I certainly didn’t want to get wet but your mom was in the mood of the song and ignored my pleas to stop rocking the boat. Suddenly she rocked a little too hard and I went flying out of the canoe!” We all began laughing. Elsie was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes. The harder she laughed, the more Colton and I laughed.

“Yes, your mom rocked the boat so hard I flew out of it, but not so hard it tipped over. I popped my head up out of the water to see your mother flowing several feet ahead of me. She was down to one oar and couldn’t control the boat by herself. It finally ran into the bank. She pulled it up onto land and swam upstream to help me capture my oar. By the time we got back to our canoe and on water again, we saw Mr. Price’s canoe flow passed us. We were in last place again. I was so mad at your mom I didn’t speak to her until we landed at the end of our trip. By then, the warmth of the summer sun had dried out my clothing and I was too tired to be mad.” Elsie told the story with such fondness, I couldn’t believe she had ever been upset with my mom.

I had been so engrossed in the story that I didn’t realize I had eaten everything on my plate. I didn’t have much of an appetite these days, so it surprised me that not only had I eaten an entire meal, but I wanted seconds. “Colton, could you pass me the stuffing please? Everything is so good!”

“Save some room for pie, “ he said. “They make an incredible cheesecake pumpkin pie, and their apple pie is pretty good too.”

For the rest of the meal, we each shared memories of my mother. I’d forgotten what a rich history she had lived. As we shared our stories, we laughed, we cried, we loved and we took some time to miss her. My mother was a larger than life personality. What we didn’t do was grieve. We celebrated the life my mother had, and we were so lucky to have had her for all the years we did. I don’t know how much wine I drank, but my head was swimming. We had been sitting at the table eating and sharing stories for almost four hours. Time had flown by.

Elsie got up to begin clearing the table, and Colton and I followed her lead. The conversation strayed away from my mother and I learned what Colton had been doing with his life. He spends a couple of weeks each year with Doctors without Borders donating his time and skills to areas in desperate need of medical care. He had a relationship with a woman named Ann and he had planned to marry her until she became pregnant by another doctor on staff. He didn’t have much time for dating and had tried the dating web sites without much luck. A golden retriever kept him company until this past summer when Buddy walked over rainbow bridge. He was working earnestly on setting up his new practice. We cleared the table and washed the dishes with a natural ease, as if we had been doing this all our lives.

“Well, I had better get going, I’ve had too much wine and too much food. Thank you Elsie and Colton, for such a lovely evening, and for all the stories of my mother. I certainly didn’t expect to feel so good when we were reminiscing. I didn’t expect to laugh, either. Really, thank you. This night meant more than you could know.” I said.

“You’re more than welcome my dear. If you want to come up for Thanksgiving next year, we could make this a new tradition.” Elsie replied.

“I don’t have to head back to the hospital until late tomorrow evening, how about coming over around lunch?” Colton asked. “We’ll have some leftovers and maybe we could take a hike? I’d love to spend some time with you before I go. It’s been too long.”

“Sure!” I said with butterflies in my bloated tummy. “I would love that.” I put on my coat.

“Let me walk you back to your cabin. It’s pretty dark out there and you never know who might still be around.” Colton said as he grabbed his coat.

“Really, I’m fine” I said. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a little flushed. What was I doing acting like a lovesick child?

Colton opened the door and the cool night air rushed upon our faces. It was exhilarating. My door was just a few feet away but I wished I lived on the other side of the lake. I didn’t want the evening to end. We reached my door and Colton lingered on the porch. Without saying a word, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I had a wonderful time this evening.” He said. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving!” I replied. I turned the key in the lock, opening the door. I almost fell into Colton’s arms, hugging him like my life depended upon it. It felt so good to be in the arms of a man again. I wanted to stay there but I slowly pulled out of his warm embrace. “See you tomorrow then?” I asked.

“Count on it!” he replied. I’m looking forward to spending more time with you. He turned and bounced down the stairs, as if he always walked on air.

I closed the door and leaned against it for a minute. It might be the wine, but my heart was fluttering. I could still feel how soft his lips felt on my face. I drew my hand up to feel the spot on my cheek he had kissed. The remnants of my school girl crush came rushing back as if my teenage self was just yesterday instead of over a decade ago. I took off my coat and danced a little to music only my feet could hear. I felt light and hopeful, something I had not felt for many months. I spent the rest of the evening in a trance like state, looking over the pictures of my childhood. I didn’t feel sad or alone the entire night. I went to bed and slept a dreamless night. I awakened in the morning wanting to see what the day would bring. I had expected a weekend of sorrow. Instead, I was having some fun. I almost felt a bit guilty for having fun when I should be grieving the loss of my mother.

The sun seemed brighter today, and I greeted the day with promise. I was looking forward to spending some time with my childhood friend and wondered why we had let time separate us. Time does that to so many people. Like Elsie said, people tend to come and go throughout our life. Often, they leave our life quietly and without ceremony. I put some logs in the hearth, there was a crisp chill in the air. It felt good to clean yesterday, so I set about cleaning out mom’s bedroom. My siblings had gone through the main house and I felt some guilt about not helping them. In fact, I felt angry with them at the time. They were right to clean her house and get it ready for sale, but to me it felt like a betrayal. We had been raised in that house. There was a lifetime of memories there and they were going to let a stranger erase them all. Every mark on the wall commemorating our growth, gone. Every nuance needing repair was repaired. The door to my old bedroom no longer groaned, the floorboard in the living room that creaked no longer creaked. The boiler system was dismantled and replaced with a cost efficient furnace. The kitchen was updated and modernized. It didn’t look like our home once my siblings got through with it. Freshly painted, it was eventually sold to a couple with two children and one on the way. Soon, they would be making their own memories in our old home.

I decided to start with her closet. I pulled out shirts and sweaters, and I saw mom in every one. Images flashed through my memory and I could place her wearing each article of clothing. I remember crying on this blouse the night I was stood up for prom. Jake ended up taking me that night. She wore this blouse the night my father died. With each piece of clothing came a memory. I gingerly folded up each one and put them in a plastic bag. They were going to be donated to the local women’s shelter. I had just finished the closet when there was a knock on the door. I looked at my watch and realized the entire morning had flown by. It was nearly noon! I wasn’t ready. I was barely dressed, I hadn’t brushed my hair or teeth.

I opened the door to find Colton standing on the porch with a picnic basket. “Good morning!” He said with a wide grin. “I thought it would be nice to have a picnic at our old spot up on the hill. What do you say?”

“A picnic? Isn’t it a bit chilly for a picnic?” I asked. It was warm for November, but it was November.

“I’ve got it covered.” He replied. “I have a thermos full of cream of turkey soup and another full of spiked hot chocolate. We have turkey sandwiches and some cheese. I have a tablecloth and a blanket if you get too chilly.” In addition to his picnic basket, I saw he was wearing a backpack. He did come prepared. How could I say no?

“OK, but I”m not quite ready. I was going through some of mom’s things and lost track of time. Give me five? Come in and have a seat, I’ll be ready in a jiff.” I said. There was no time for make-up. Running a brush through my hair and brushing my teeth would have to do.

“Tell you what, take ten. Mom taught me the best women were the ones worth waiting for.” He said with a twinkle in his eye.

I smiled back and rushed into the bathroom. I layered my clothing, putting on a cami, a t-shirt and then a sweater. I found my hiking boots, a scarf and a warm wool hat. I was as ready as I was going to get.

“Let’s go!” I felt an excitement stirring inside of me I haven’t felt in a very long time. This weekend was turning out to be so different than the one I expected. I thought I would be alone and crying the entire time. I didn’t shed a single tear when I was putting mom’s clothing into the donation bag. I was giving mom’s clothing away, but keeping the memories. I had plenty of mementos and pictures to keep her memory fresh and alive.

“Let’s go!” He said.

I stepped out into a day warmer than I expected. There was still a slight chill in the air, but the chill disappeared as we walked. It was as if no time had passed between us. We talked with the same ease we had as children. We shared our memories, and laughed at the adventures we had together. I had forgotten most of them, but as we talked the past reared back to life as if it had been waiting in the shadows to come out into the light once more. The past year, the heartache and sorrow faded into the background and I found myself truly enjoying the moment. His eyes sparkled in the sun, his smile was infectious. I couldn’t help but have a good time with him. We reached the summit of the hill and he reached around for his backpack. I felt energized and alive.

He spread the tablecloth on the ground, sitting on top of it. He motioned for me to sit next to him as he prepared our picnic. I shivered a bit when I sat next to him. He thought I was cold and pulled the blanket out, laying it across our legs. He poured us each a drink, and the hot chocolate was delicious. He continued to lay out our lunch, and I suddenly found I was starving. I remembered that I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. I ate my soup and sandwich with great enthusiasm. He laughed at me. “Well, I guess you have a healthy appetite!” He said with a smile in his voice.

“I forgot to eat breakfast.” I replied. “I honestly didn’t expect to have much of an appetite this weekend, but this weekend has been full of unexpected things.”

“You know, when mom told me you were here, I have to admit it was an unexpected surprise. I’ve thought about you now and then over the years, and of course mom keeps me in tune with the latest gossip. I’m happy we can spend some time together. It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.” He said, his voice becoming quieter.

“I’ve missed you too.” I admitted. “We were so close when we were kids, and then life took us in different directions.”

“I regret not keeping in touch with you. I got caught up in medical school and then life in general. I always meant to call you but then as time went on it seemed awkward. Then you got married and it didn’t seem appropriate.” He said.

“Yeah, we should have kept in touch. We shouldn’t let that happen again.” I replied.

“No, we won’t let that happen again.” He said as he stared deeply into my eyes. I could get lost in those cerulean blues. Neither of us spoke, each of us lost in our own thoughts. He leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. I swear my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. It was so loud I was certain he could hear it. I looked away nervously.

“I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I’ve actually wanted to do that since I saw you yesterday. This is me showing restraint.” His voice cracked a little. He was as nervous as I was.

“No, I uhm,” I didn’t know what else to say, so I kissed him back. Our lips touched one another and the electricity was undeniable. I wanted to strip off his clothes then and there, but there was a sweetness, a tenderness in letting our lips linger upon one another.

Our faces were so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. I felt dizzy. I leaned into him to steady myself. He ran his fingers through my hair. Neither one of us spoke for what seemed like an eternity. He sat up straight and took my face in his hands. “I don’t want to pressure you, or to rush you, but the truth is I’ve always loved you. I thought it was just a crush when we were younger, but seeing you again brought back all those feelings and they are as strong now as they were then. I let you go once before, I don’t want to lose touch with you again.” He said. His voice quivered when he spoke, unsure if I felt the same way. “I know it’s been a rough year for you, so if you need time, I can understand that, but let’s not lose touch again.”

A tear, and then another one escaped down my cheek. I was overwhelmed with emotion. I looked down. I couldn’t bear to let him see my face. I stammered “I had a crush on you all throughout my teen years too.” I looked up to see him smiling. He brushed the hair out of my face. He kissed me again, just as tenderly as the first time but with the passion he had been holding back. I was tingling from head to toe as I kissed him back. I no longer felt a chill in the air. There was no past and no future. There was only right now, this moment. There was no place I would rather be. He ran his hand from my face to the back of my neck and kissed me again, pulling me in towards him. I would have melted into him if I could. His kiss was filled with an innocence, with a patience I’ve never felt before. It was as if I was being kissed for the very first time. He ended the kiss by nibbling my upper lip, ever so gently. As he pulled away, I almost felt lost, as if part of me was pulling away with him.

“We’d better head back, it’s going to get real chilly real fast and we are out of hot chocolate and soup.” He said. We packed up our picnic without a word, each of us lost in our own thoughts. We walked back to the cabin hand in hand, neither one of us speaking. We didn’t need words when we were kids, and we didn’t need them now. Dare I say I felt happy? Hopeful even? Like all of the tragedy of the last year had melted into the past and all there was was a future, a future full of love, hope and promise? A future that no longer held the emptiness I’ve felt since my life fell apart? Mom always said a door never closes without another one opening, could this be that open door?

We arrived back at my cabin and he paused at the door. “I’ve got to head back to the hospital tonight, they are short staffed and the holidays are always busy. Can I call you?” He asked.

“Of course, of course, I’d like that.” I said shyly. I was like a schoolgirl in love for the first time instead of a woman who had been married and divorced. I smiled into his eyes and he kissed me once more, this time moving his kisses over my cheek.

“Awesome!” He said excitedly. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can make some plans to get together soon.” He leaned in to give me another kiss before he practically leapt off the porch, taking the steps two at a time. I watch him until he got to Elsie’s cabin. He turned and waved to me before he ducked inside the door. I went inside my own cabin, my heart light. All the confusion and pain I had been feeling melted away. I no longer felt alone.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening going through mom’s things. With each of her things I touched, a memory came to mind. Some of the memories were happy, some sad. Some of the memories were funny, others reminded me of times I was in trouble. I packed things into boxes, things I wanted to keep and other boxes for my siblings to go through in case they wanted anything. The last boxes were packed to be donated. Mom’s bedroom was in a state of organized disarray by the time I had finished. With each box packed, a little bit of sorrow was packed away with it. I healed a bit as I packed up mom’s life. My memories provided me with a life in review. Mom had a good life. She didn’t suffer when she died. Elsie was right, mom had left me with everything I needed to go on without her. I wished I didn’t have to go on without her, but that’s how life is. People aren’t meant to stay with you forever. They come into your life with gifts, lessons you need to learn, experiences you need to have to be a better person that you were before. I am a better person because mom was in my life. One day, I will be a better mother because of all she taught me. I will fill my daughter’s life with stories of this amazing woman. I will show her pictures so she can know mom as I did and though they cannot meet, my daughter will come to love her as I love her. I put the boxes in the car so I could head back to town first thing in the morning.

I walked back into the cabin after loading the last box and looked around. I breathed in the smell of lilacs, still strong even after I cleaned. Mom didn’t leave me. She would forever be in every lilac I would ever smell for the rest of my life. When her memory fades, as memories do, I will look at her pictures. When I want to talk to her, all I have to do is search my memories through the many conversations we had. Her truths are there, I simply need to remember and I will know what my mom would say to me. I grabbed a sandwich and my vodka. This weekend had been full of surprises. I thought I had lost my mother, but she was here all along. I thought my life empty, but I just needed to be reminded of the past to see how full my life could be. Elsie is here and she has always meant so much to me. I’ve always loved Colton, but now I will love him as an adult. My life with Tom wasn’t the life I deserved. I deserved so much better. I deserve to be happy and I would never have been truly happy with him. The door with Tom was closed, and the door with Colton had opened.

I finished my cleaning and went to bed. I slept hard and in my dreams my mother appeared to me again, looking like an angel. She reached out her arms to me and I reached out to her. This time, I was able to embrace my mother and I felt her love surge through me, filling up every place there was pain. Her love was all consuming, so there wasn’t room for sorrow. When I awoke, I awakened feeling peaceful. The sun was shining in through the dirty windows, and I could see the country dust dancing on the beams. I stretched out the night, preparing my body for the coming day. I felt the afterglow from my dream and gave myself a little hug. This time when I thought of my mother, I didn’t think of loss. I thought of the life we shared and I swear I felt my heart smile. I made it through the first Thanksgiving without her. It was time for new traditions, traditions which honored the past but celebrated the present. I made a vow to spend next Thanksgiving here with Elsie. I don’t know what Christmas will look like without my mother, but I’m ready for it.

I got dressed and said a tearful goodbye to Elsie. When my mother died, I thought my life was over. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be the same, but as I drove back to my life I knew what Elsie said was true. My mother had left me with a lifetime of love.