Losing Mama
Photo by Jon Flobrant
I was about five years old the first time I lost my mother. We had made the much anticipated monthly or bimonthly trip into town. The twenty-five mile excursion required some planning. Errands were postponed until enough were compiled to make the jaunt worthwhile. Lists were made. The trip itself was an event.
A stop at the McCrory’s department store was a must. All of the toys arranged in the table top bins looked like heaven. On this particular day, the magnitude and variety of goods captured my heart. And my full attention. I made sure to examine each offering minutely.
Photo by Susan Holt Simpson
So enthralled, I was unaware when my mother left me alone on the aisle. I continued in blissful ignorance of her absence. Gradually, I sensed that something was wrong. I looked up expecting to see her and found myself alone. A rush of fear assaulted my heart and mind. She was always there. But not this time. Wide-eyed, I looked around searching for my anchor. My world fell from beneath my feet.
I abandoned the bauble in my hands and bolted. At the end of the aisle, I frantically searched for her. My throat closed as I tried to call her name. A slight squeak escaped my lips. I felt faint. I began to panic.
Just then, I heard her call me from the next section. The sound of her voice drenched me with relief. Her nearby presence calmed my heart. I could breath again. I ran to her side and attached myself to her leg. She could barely move. I had found my tether to security, and I refused to budge.
Photo by Hello Revival
I lost my mother again a few months ago. This time, I was considerably older than five, and we were not shopping. The same terror attacked my soul. My anchor could not catch ground. The imaginary tether between us was severed leaving me adrift. I looked up from life, and she was gone. The presence that I took for granted no longer dwelled here. The loss was staggering. Suddenly the knowing deep within my soul that she was a phone call or a short drive away disappeared. It didn’t matter that she was 84 years old. The person that I could absolutely count on to love me no matter what had left. Now, I had to be the grownup.
Like the little girl on the toy aisle, I had let my focus on my desires and living my life take my eyes off of her. Those baubles that consumed me no longer seemed so important without her. I could not drop them, run around the aisle and find her. Busyness had hobbled my feet.
Now, I yearn for an unexpected phone call or a few minutes visiting on the front porch swing. I feel now that maybe I didn’t make enough time for her. That if somehow I had arranged more visits and phone calls and had stored them in my memories that the loss would be a little more bearable. The truth is that the loss is deep no matter how many memories are there.
I spend time with my children. I squeeze my grandkids. Several times each day, I think about calling her and remember that she is not in my aisle. My heart aches until I remember that one day I, too, will run around the aisle, and she will be there.
The whole family on Thanksgiving 2018, a year before she passed away.
