Despite having children, Mother’s Day is difficult for me. Glum. Gray. Since my mother’s death, I often let the day pass by as quietly as I can. People wish me happiness on the day because I am a mother, but it’s a gentle reminder I cannot wish happiness to my own on this day. I’m not mad at the people of course. I’m grateful they take time to wish me such things. They don’t mean to wound. I am just naturally wounded. Yesterday I was cleaning out a larger closet and came upon a copy box from Staples, unsure what it was. I opened it to find all the unused little programs from my mother’s “celebration of life”. On the front, her photo and name and dates. On the back, the poem “I Carry Your Heart With Me” by EE Cummings. I put it there because it was ours. She loved that poem from the moment I showed it to her years ago. She said it was about us. Sometimes I can feel her in everything. Sometimes I can’t feel her at all. I don’t know which hurts me more. This is a photo of us spending the night at my granny’s house. My mother, in full makeup even as she sleeps. I miss her terribly. Despite aging, you are never done needing your mother. I am not done needing her. Happy Mother’s Day to you all. 🖤
