I miss her southern accent.
The phone calls would come every other day, sometimes a voicemail, but when I could pick up I would say, “Hey there, Lady.”
“Well, how are you, hon.”
The phone calls were always wonderful, and I do miss them, but there was nothing like sitting in her rocking chair or on her patio talking. In those circumstances, it seemed like time had stopped and there wasn’t any life outside of her door. It always felt that way, like we could shut out the world. Our conversations always varied but usually came back to talking about writing or her telling stories about her Daddy and Uncle Curtis, and I’d sit eager, like a child, asking questions to keep her talking. There is something about a verbal story being told in a southern accent that makes it more raw and real. It makes the stories sit deeper in your heart and heavier on your shoulders.
I miss the smell of her home.
My mom’s home had a distinct smell, like most homes I suppose, but it was different. To me it calmed me and made me feel safe. It always has. It was often like the smell of incense but without incense burning. I’m not sure how she did that. I now cover up with her blanket every night as I read or watch a show, and that smell is there, sitting on me. I can open up a box of journals that came from her home, and that same smell comes out and brings tears to my eyes. My fear is that someday the smell will go away and all of her things will just smell like me.
The smell I loved most. The smell that will never go away, that I had known for fifty-three years and has a place reserved deep in my senses and belly, is chicken and dumplings. A year ago, I walked into my mom’s house to that smell lingering in the air, and like many years before, ever since I was a child, she made them for my birthday. She stood at the stove, legs weak, but her hands moved with intention, rolling dumplings. Nobody on this earth can roll a dumpling like my mother. I see chicken and dumplings on menus sometimes, but they are yankee made. It just isn’t the same. I’ll never get to have that smell bring my stomach to an anticipating rumble again.
I miss her hugs.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing like a mother’s hug. In one moment it can take a fifty-three year old man through five decades of comfort and love. That’s all I can say about that.
I miss her colorful shoes.
My mom had these shoes that she would show up in, answering the door, ready to go for a drive, to breakfast, or to her chemotherapy appointments, and they just made you smile. It reminded me a little of Jessica Tandy playing Ninny Threadgood in the movie, Fried Green Tomatoes. She had a few pairs of different colors, some looking like they were hand painted by Jackson Pollock, with the scattering, splattering mess, that somehow made him a genius. A pair of those shoes sit in my closet and every morning I greet them.
I miss the strict look that could come to her eye in a moment's notice.
My mom would often sit back and just listen to her children talk. The volume would always increase and someone would say something a little too sassy for her liking, or slip to the side of being slightly disrespectful, and her eyes would shift. It was a warning, like when we were kids, but she did this up until the day she died. All of her adult children knew how to push those buttons to get that glare, but we also backed down quickly. My mom never raised her voice or laid a hand on us because a look was all that was needed. Her eyes could tame a rattlesnake. She demanded respect towards herself, and for us to respect one another, but especially our elders. Nothing else was acceptable and she’d let you know it. Now, if her index finger came out pointing at you, following the stare that looked through your soul, well, then it was time to clear the room, or just go and hug her until she laughed.
I miss being told by my mom, “I love you,” on a daily basis.
Every day I either received a call or text with my mom telling me she loved me, and not just once in the short conversation, but multiple times. In person, the first and last thing she often said was, “I love you, hon.” As I mentioned with her southern accent, there is something just a little more special about being told “I love you” with that drawl. It sits a little longer on the heart I think.
My mother’s love for me saved me. It saved me from some pretty rough times. When I was a kid, from kindergarten on up through my senior year, my mom would place a note in my lunch box or bag with a note that read, “I love you.” Sometimes she would add, “I love you, Roy Boy.” I was never embarrassed by those notes. I would look around hoping the other kids had mothers that did the same. She knew I hated school and hated being away from her, so those notes stayed in my pocket. I wish I would have kept them.
Even though she’s gone, I carry her love with me and will until I die and after. I believe this is why she told me she loved me so much throughout my lifetime. She knew she'd be gone one day and wanted my soul to hear and feel it for an eternity.
I miss being able to tell my mom, “I love you.”
I’m not sure what was more special to me, being told “I love you” or being able to say it in return. There would be times that I’d be walking down the hallway at work and I would pull out my phone and text, “I love you, mom.” It wasn’t long before I would hear back, “Well, I love you more.” Other times, I’d pick up the phone and call her and say, “Hey, I’m at work, but I want you to know I love you.” The reply would be, “Hon, you just made my day.” I still tell my mom that I love her on a daily basis. I know she hears me. There is too much going on around me for her not to.
I miss caring for her.
There comes a time when a boy becomes a man and his mother becomes ill, and that is when the man must step up and care for her. All of my siblings and her grandkids feel the same, I know, but I can only use my words for myself. Now, I am not saying she could not care for herself. My mom was one of the most determined people I have ever known. When the Oncologist told her it was unlikely she would return home after she was given a two month prognosis and she gave me that look, I knew what was coming the moment we left the clinic. “I’m going home. I’ll figure it out.” She did! That old woman went back home, set her apartment up so she could either move around with her walker, walking stick, or wheelchair, and she did it. She once asked me when she was in the rehab facility, “What do you think about me going home?” I told her directly, “If that’s what you want, then let's figure out a way to do it.” She wanted to be around her paintings and poetry and the pictures of her children and grandchildren. She did not want to be confined. I miss helping her with that freedom and independence. I miss knowing that she needed me, like she did everyone else who stepped up to care for her. It gave me purpose.
I miss her determination.
My mom was the most stubborn person I knew, and have known. She’d get mad at me when I told her so, but there was also a sense of pride in her glare. It wasn’t stubbornness, like a bullheaded, mean stubbornness, but a determination. When she called a couple of years ago to tell me her diagnosis of having Multiple Myeloma she said, “Hon, I’m going to fight this. I’m not just going to lay down and die.” I knew right then that even though she couldn’t beat this type of cancer or death, she was about to give them one hell of a battle. I remember thinking, “If we all pay attention, we are about to get one hell of a life lesson.” Though, my mom’s lessons of never giving up and fighting until you can’t anymore were instilled a long time ago. It’s why I have been able to survive many of the things I have and not just curl up and wither away. My mom was my greatest teacher, and witnessing her determination has been one of the greatest lessons I have received.
I miss her hands.
I know I am not alone when I say this, but I could put my mother’s hands in a line up with a thousand others and pick them out. Like all hands do, they change over the years. The age spots appear, the purple from needles and bruises start to make permanent dots on the tops of her hands. My mom’s hands told a story of hard work, from picking cotton as a little girl to working in housekeeping and other jobs that required a strong grip. Her hands endured a hard life. I bet, like her mother before her, that if she closed her grip, that you could not open them. Her hands shook at the end, sometimes uncontrollable, but then they rested across her chest. I held them as I wept.
I miss her telling me that she’s proud of me.
I understand that most mothers are proud of their kids, and they should be. A mother’s support is crucial for development. My mom has been telling me that she’s proud of me since I was little. Much of her pride came from watching me in sports. I honestly did not give her a lot to be proud of as a student growing up. However, if I went to class and came home with a report card that didn’t have anything below a “C” grade, she told me she was proud of me. Mostly, I think she knew I was often bored in class. I thrived when I could write in English or listen to one of my favorite teachers talk about old west history.
Before my mom died, when she lay in her hospice bed, a few hours before she could not speak, she said to me, “I am proud of the man you have become. I am proud of your accomplishments as a writer and teacher, and I am proud of how much you love Karen. You were always a good son.” A mother’s pride can take you a long way through the darkness.
I miss seeing her with her grandchildren.
My mom loved her kids, but she adored her grandchildren. I would sit back and watch her watch them. No matter how much pain she was in, when they entered the room, her eyes lit up. I believe she saw herself in them, and saw her roots. Family roots run deep, and little mannerisms sometimes emerge, and she saw her grandkids in her parents, aunts, uncles, sisters, and grandparents. I believe her grandkids gave her life reason and purpose because she got to witness the extension of herself live on. All of the suffering she endured through her lifetime, emotionally and physically, was worth it as she watched her roots extend further.
I miss how she was standing on the other side of her door waiting for me to enter.
My mom was never sitting when I entered her home. She was always waiting for me in the open doorway or I’d hear, “Hon, c’mon in.” Then, her arms would be open and I’d receive a kiss to the cheek. She knew how to greet someone and make them feel welcome. Towards the end, she was often in a comfortable, thin dress, barefoot, standing there holding onto a chair or wall for stability, but nevertheless, she stood there greeting me. Sometimes, and this is the truth, when I enter the room I write in, where her curio cabinet stands, pictures and ashes displayed, I anticipate her standing there ready for a hug and kiss. It brings tears to my eyes. Losing a mother’s greeting is like losing the sun.
I miss talking about writing.
My mom was a poet. She wrote stories and essays and was working on her life story when she died. She wanted me to have all of her writing because every time I was with her our conversations eventually turned to writing. I miss that. I do not know many writers or anyone who likes to talk about writing and books. A few years ago, when she was still healthy, I took my mom to see Anne Lamott speak and read from her new book. We both absorbed her words and talked about this moment for the remainder of my mom’s life. This is when I saw my mother the happiest. It was when her mind turned to another world, to creativity. I once asked her, “If you could live your life over, what would you want to do?” She said, “I would want to go to school for art and then paint and write.” I gently said to her, “Mom, you do paint and write.” She said, “Hmmm…well…you little shit.” Sometimes we fulfill our dreams and don’t even know we’re doing it. My mom used to tell me, “I have learned so much from you.” This made me proud because the things she said she learned from me was being mindful, in the moment, and letting go of the things we cannot change. Those are not easy things to learn or accomplish, but she tried.
I miss the feeling, the need really, to keep her safe.
This might sound too masculine for some. That word “masculinity” has taken on too many forms and gotten a bad rap in past years. It has the word “Toxic” placed in front of it and possibly for good reason with some of the peacocking men on social media. However, I believe it is okay to be masculine, protective, courteous, brave, courageous, and so on. I believe a long time ago, when we were kids, my brother and I took on the role of protector for my mom. For those that don’t understand this, I envy you. You probably had a father that you saw loving your mother instead of abusing her. For us, when we became old enough and strong enough, the moment came when we knew we would need to go to our dad and tell him that his days of hurting her were over. After having many conversations with my brother over the years, it sounds like we both threatened to kill him. This type of protection, or masculinity if you will, was necessary. It was necessary to take away his power and control over her, over us. My dad could be dangerous, but my mother raised sons who loved her and could become equally dangerous if needed. I couldn’t handle her tears from blackened eyes anymore, and I could not handle the breaking tone of her quivering voice when she called and said he was stalking her. She was afraid he’d kill her. We weren’t going to allow that.
In a strange way, that type of protection continued long after my dad died, and especially as she became ill the past couple of years. Knowing I needed to stay strong in order to protect her made me aware and alert. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that being married holds the same weight of being a protector on my shoulders. It’s why I am always prepared for the worst and prepared to do what’s necessary. This is not macho talk, but the reality of what trauma can do to you.
I miss my mom’s belief in me.
She always told me I could do whatever I set my mind to. She was right. To have someone believe in you is a gift. Believing in yourself is a treasure.
I miss our drives in the country.
I miss being able to call her and say, “Hey lady, how about I come and get you and we go for a drive?” The answer was rarely “No” unless one of her other kids or grandkids beat me to it. Our drives would be out in the country, past beautiful farms and trees and it would get her talking about where she grew up on Burleson Mountain in Morgan County, Alabama. Sometimes when she saw the fields and farm equipment and the words of her daddy flowed, so would the tears. A parents memory will never leave, but it will often leave you in tears.
Our drives would sometimes take us to graveyards. She liked to look at the headstones and the dates. The last cemetery we went to was in Deerfield where Karen’s dad and grandparents are buried. We took a moment of silence and honored them. At the time, I remember wondering if my mom was thinking of her own death, her own mortality, as she stood looking down. She was now within two months of dying, so she was told. How did she feel? I didn’t need to ask. I knew. My mom has been talking to me about death since I was a child. We walked to the gravesites and took in all of the names, mostly Norwegian and German it seemed. A history lesson unfolded before us.
Our long drives often ended with a chocolate shake, one of her favorite things.
I miss her forgiveness.
I think back to some of the things I did when I was younger, coming of age, and wondered how my mom navigated it all. I was getting in fights, skipping school, stealing from stores, and drinking. When I was in the sixth grade, I thought it was a good idea to leave school with some eighth graders, rough and rowdy kids who we called “Dirtbags” at the time. Maybe I was a dirtbag too? We walked down to a middle school a couple of miles away in a different district, and stormed the hallways. Our screams and howling and cursing at the adults who looked in horror and disgust as they locked their classroom doors made us feel powerful. We called out the boys we came there to fight but only a man in a tie came out yelling at us to leave from a distance. Our “fuck yous” and giving him the finger seemed glorious at the time. There were six of us. Rough and rowdy, looking like characters straight from The Outsiders but without the grease in our hair. Then, when we laughed and stumbled our way out the back doors, we looked up and saw six squad cars waiting for us. Four of the boys took off and a strong, good looking kid who everyone adored, named TJ, and I stood there as the police ran to us and pressed us against the brick wall of the school, cuffs in front of our backs.
I will never forget the look on my dad’s face as he walked into the station to pick me up. I figured a good beating was to come, but for some reason he almost seemed stoic and didn’t say a word to me. No beating came, not a word, nothing. The worst part was seeing my mom’s face. I knew I had disappointed her and that was the worst punishment of all. She grounded me for a month, and kept her word on the given consequence right up to the day and hour of the sentencing. During that month, I stayed home and looked at books and went to see the movie “On Golden Pond” with my mom and sister, Charlotte. I could shoot baskets in my driveway and workout in my basement, but there was no leaving the perimeters of the yard or having friends over. When I look back, that time taught me a lot. It taught me that consequences are necessary and do not mean punishment because I didn’t feel punished. My mom did not keep reminding me of my infraction. She didn’t think less of me. She was holding me accountable because that was her job as a parent who loved me. In fact, I got to spend so much time with my mom during that month that I look back and am thankful.
I miss her strength.
There were times when I was a boy that I felt like I failed her. I would see her sitting in the front seat of our station wagon, the same type of wagon that sits on the cover of my first novel, and see a gentle tear run past her dark sunglasses and onto her high cheekbone. I knew what lay under those glasses, and it was the marking from my father, another blackened eye. I wanted to help her. I fondled the jackknife I carried in my pocket, her daddy’s knife, and pictures plunging the blade into my dad’s neck. He drove the car, cigarette hanging from his mouth, left arm resting on the window. I don’t think he knew how many times I visualized killing him. I know I was only a boy and it wasn’t my fault, but I still felt helpless, like I could not stop him. Her strength was enormous, enduring what she was going through to make a life full of love for her kids. I often wonder how she managed to do that. We talked about it before and she simply replied, “Honey, there’s women all over this world that hide their wounds from their children and try to survive.”
I miss her comfort.
She came looking for me in the woods next to our house. I was eight years old. “Chuckie!” I heard her yell from a distance. I didn’t answer her. I wanted her to find me. For some reason seeing her search for her eight year old son made me realize how much she loved me. I am not sure why I needed reassurance. Perhaps it was the beating I had just received from my dad. My ribs and back ached. My shirt was dusty from laying on the garage floor.
I sat among the trees, silent until she appeared. Smiling, she sat next to me and told me about when she was a girl and how she loved to play in the woods, running alongside her was her dog. I always loved her stories.
She didn’t know about the beating, so she didn’t know how much it hurt when she hugged me, holding her arm around me as we walked out of the woods together, back to a home where secrets were kept.
I miss hearing the words, “I’m your momma, you can’t hide anything from me.”
She would call and catch me on a day that my depression came to visit. Within a sentence she would say, “What’s the matter, hon?” I would try to fool her and say, “Oh nothing, I’m okay.” My attempt to not worry her. She replied, as she often did in these dark times, “Son, I’m your momma, you can’t hide anything from me.” It’s a similar feeling when Karen looks at me real close and says, “You have eyes. Are you okay?” The people that love you most always know when you are struggling. My mom always knew when her kids were suffering or in any kind of pain. It’s an instinct mother’s have.
What I don’t miss.
I don’t miss watching her decline and suffer. For more than two years I walked around like a balled up fist. Watching her in so much pain took its toll on my body. I started to feel pain every day. Every joint and muscle hurt, so much so that I was taken through test after test and MRI’s to rule out the “bad” things that it could be. My wife and chiropractor finally said, “I think your pain has a lot to do with your mother dying.” At the time, I really could not understand it or believe it. I guess I was so immersed in the process of her dying and caring for her that I had no idea what was happening to me. My legs were tightened. My lower back hurt to the point where some mornings I could hardly move. The headaches rested on my temples and forehead. My shoulders ached, and I found out what a psoas muscle was because I was told mine was extremely tight. More tight than the chiropractor or massage therapist or doctor had ever seen. This one muscle, where it is said that we carry our emotional pain, was screaming at me and subdued my movement. I walked around for over two years in excruciating pain and nothing, absolutely nothing helped.
I put it all aside. I had to. Like all of my mom’s children and grandchildren, we put our lives and perhaps our health to the wayside without even knowing. When you anticipate the death of the woman who brought you life, it will wreck you. My body is still trying to release the tension. I still wake up in pain, but it is getting better.
I know much of my pain is from feeling helpless and the agony of watching my mom in so much pain. It was not much different than being the helpless little boy seeing his mother with black eyes, chipped teeth, and a bloody nose. Now that she is gone, I grieve. The people that come forward and tell me that “Death is an illusion” or that “It will get better” or “Well, she was eighty four,” must not understand. Perhaps they do, and I certainly don’t judge their grieving process, so please do not judge mine.
The pain of losing my mother is like a spike to the stomach. It’s having a weight on my chest that restricts my breathing. It’s suffocating. This does not mean that I have not accepted her death. I have, and have fully, because I must in order to go and live my life. My grieving is nothing to worry about. If I were not grieving, that would bring worry. I am my mother’s son, and many of these things I miss about her, I hold them close to me. They have shaped and molded me into the man I am. The stubborn grit and the dreamer who writes down his pain and joy. The person who understands how important it is to tell the people dearest to you how much you love them.
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