Feels Like Yesterday

My mother died 30 years ago today. It feels like yesterday. How often do I say that about things, especially as my own age creeps up the birthday scale? Too often. But according to the calendar, my mother's death occurred 10,950 yesterdays ago. How have I managed 10,950 days without my mom? It feels inconceivable, but here I am, at age 61, still carrying on without her.

These 30 years, without Mom, have been filled with lessons learned. When she left us, my husband, 3 children, and I were a family of 5. After she departed, we added our youngest daughter; all four of our children married; and they added 13 grandchildren to the fray, none of whom ever had the incredible pleasure of knowing my mother.

In these 30 years, we lost (and Mom welcomed heavenside) her son, her husband, her son-in-law, her great-grandson, her sister, two brothers-in-law, and nieces and nephews. I routinely imagine what those heavenside welcomings are like, no doubt including her signature warm bearhugs and hands cupping faces as she beams into the eyes of those she loves.

In these 30 years, much has happened that I wish I could share with my mother. The heartaches, the worries, the accomplishments. She was so good at making me feel like I could work out any problem and reach any goal I worked hard to achieve.

In these 30 years, I have generally felt that she is very far away from me, but there are precious moments when I get a shiver of remembrance, or a flood of familiarity, and it feels like she is right beside me. Those moments usually occur when I'm watching grandkids giggle and play together, or as I sit back and listen to the hilarious conversations my adult children have with one another, or when I catch a glimpse of amusement in my daughters' brown eyes. This morning it happened when I took a second before work to smell the flowers my son's family gave me for Mother's Day, and for the millionth time, said, "Daisies were Mom's favorite."

In these 30 years, I have wished to ask her millions of questions; to clarify hazy childhood memories I know she could explain; to remind me of the details of stories half-forgotten; to give me advice on parenting adults and succeeding at grandmotherhood; and to mother me, when at age 61, I would really like for her to explain the complexities of surviving post-menopause.

In the next 30 years, I will continue to wish for the same. I will continue to tell stories of her to anyone who will listen. I will continue to quote her wise words to anyone who needs them. I will continue to view her posterity from her perspective and find joy in the moments. And I will continue to miss her, because the ache of her departure from us will always feel like it happened just yesterday.