I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING FOR ONE MORE DAY WITH MY MOM

Days meant to be celebrated turn to days of mourning. No one ever really tells you that. One year you’re putting together a handmade card the night before, and the next you’re kept up at night wondering why you never did more.

In 2019, if I had known it was my last celebration of her birth, of her motherhood, of her, I would have moved mountains for her. She was gone before I could even think about all the ways life would change without her.

I don’t want to, but there’s a part of me that envies anyone who still has a mother to turn to. There’s not a thing I wouldn’t give for one more day with her, one last celebration of who she was and all the good she did.

This time around, I’d be the one making the rice and beans and slicing the oranges. I would climb any mountain she picked and wouldn’t complain about how steep it was or how my feet got tired. Once we reached the top of the mountain, I would look out at this world, the one she brought me into, and thank her for everything I never thought to thank her for, for every sacrifice I never knew she made, for every meal she put on my plate, for all the shoes she replaced when my feet grew too fast or I wore the soles down.

I would brush her hair after her shower with the same tenderness she showed me, and hold open every single door. I’d let her pick the movie we watched and laugh at every joke she made. I would be proud of the way she turned strangers into Facebook friends in the time it took me to go to the bathroom. I would take the time to appreciate the ferns she always kept and help wash the dishes. All the reluctance would vanish the moment I had another chance. But there won’t be any more days, and though I feel her in my heart and I see her in every beautiful thing, I will never feel her hands in mine again. I won’t feel that complete safety and familiarity that your mother’s company creates.

It’s been three years and counting, yet there are still times when something happens and my first instinct is to call her. There have been times when I see a curly head of hair from behind or a black and white Mini Cooper and think it’s her, but it never will be.

The truth is that time doesn’t heal all wounds, and that there are days when the grieving feels as gut-wrenching as it did in those first days without her. I miss her always, but occasionally, I go some time without thinking about her, and that is one of the hardest things to live with. The innocent act of enjoying life mindlessly can feel completely wrong. Eventually, I remind myself that she would want me to live my life, to be happy, to love and to lose and to move on when journeys reach their end.

I’ll always carry some shame for continuing without her; it would make more sense if the universe knew that stars should fall from the sky and animals should break out of zoos. The whole world should know that everything will always be a little bit wrong without her there.

If you’re reading this and you have a mother to celebrate, please hold her hands for me. Please tell her how beautiful a person she is and how you have no idea how you came to deserve a love like hers. Tell her that you’re sorry for every mistake you’ve made, and that you wish you had listened to the lessons she tried to teach you so long ago. Thank her for whatever she gave up so that you could have absolutely everything you needed. Thank her for teaching you what it means to be kind. For all the Band-Aids that weren’t necessary and every bedtime story, for the patience she almost always had and for her good taste in music. Give her a hug, just one extra hug, so I can imagine that in some way, it’s from me.

If you’re reading this and you have a mother to celebrate, please hold her hands for me. Please tell her how beautiful a person she is.