I remember when a dear friend of mine lost her mother during our freshman year of high school. I curled up on Mom’s lap, crying as my heart broke for her; it wasn’t long before Mom began to as well.
“No daughter should ever be without her Mom. Not like this. Not this young.“
Three years and five months later, I again curled up on my friend Leana’s lap, choking on sobs.
“I don’t have a mom anymore,” was all I could say; “It’s not fair," was all she could reply. There were no other words.
Not like this. Not this young.
At 18, I did a lot of things that were unfair. At 18, as friends signed their letters of intent to play college sports, I cosigned my mom's organ donation papers with my dad. I spoke at her funeral before I ever gave a presentation in college. My sister, only 20, wrote her obituary. My brother, only 16, drove her car home from the last place she'd parked. My dad, her husband, her widower, gave her eulogy.
I’m so stupidly blessed that our finals words to each other were “I love you." Our relationship was flawed, as many mother-daughter bonds are, and there are so many stupid, moronic moments I’d undo as a daughter if I could. From the ages 3 to 5, I peed in her shoes whenever I was mad at her. I rolled my eyes at her optimism and perkiness when I was 13 and full of angst for a world that had never been anything but good to me. I snuck out; I lied; I took her car keys without asking. I was, by all accounts, a little shit. But what I regret most is every night I left my mom home alone to hang out with friends. That I bought my senior ball dress at a thrift store without her, instead of letting her take me shopping as she had begged. That I chose to look at colleges with my dad, so she never saw where I went to school. That I lied about dating to her, so she never knew I was in love.
The fact is, cliche as it may be, every day is Mother’s Day. Every day your mother’s heart beats in rhythm with yours, you have the privilege of being one half of the most fragile, beautiful relationship you’ll know.
And some day, those days will be gone.
The Hallmark cards don’t mention that part, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Our days are as numbered as the flowers you’ll give her, but that doesn’t make life any less beautiful. So until then, my fellow daughters, be an active participant in your relationship. Don’t roll your eyes when she sends you a text, or give short answers when she asks “how was your day”; you’ll miss those when she’s gone. I’ve been told several times that “grief is love with no place to go”. So while you still have a place, pour your love into her.
