Motherless

I’m scrolling through the text messages, attempting to find one year ago. The messages between us are about the house we put an offer on, followed by the photos I took when we walked through it. I hate that I can quickly scroll to the bottom of our thread, that our messages back and forth seem so few. They end on June 22nd, and I hate that too. What was I doing for seven days that I didn’t text my mom before she was gone? What was so much more important?

It isn’t fair to myself to ask those questions. The answers I might want simply aren’t there. But they swirl all the same, often around and around until they find the drain and disappear. A lot of “what ifs” and “how comes” that only deepen the ache in my stomach instead of remedy it.

I am a motherless mother.

I told someone that I am learning to sit with the pain and difficulty of loss. I write about this loss because it has changed everything, but what most don’t know is the compound loss we have faced this year. The discomfort of pain has been ever-present. There are days when it feels like a magnet has been fastened to my gut and the earth beneath my feet is pulling the magnet deeper into the earth. Consuming. Deeply heart-wrenching. Suffocating. Pain makes me squirm, and somehow in eleven months I’ve learned to breathe through it. To let it be so that it can lessen, even if it lessens ever so slowly.

What is bizarre beyond measure is how fully I can feel the magnitude of two emotions all at once. I am a motherless mother—a woman capable of loving her children wholly while immensely grieving that the woman who felt that way about me isn’t here any longer. I want to call her daily. I want to ask her everything. I want her to tell me I’m a good mom. I want her to tell me this gets easier. Because it has to, right, Mom? Or will I just be looking for you everywhere, all the time?

And the kids! Mom, they are becoming the best people. You would be so proud of your grandkids. They are passionate, kind, funny, joyful, smart, and insightful. They love to read books and play outside together. They are responsible, and their futures are brighter than I imagined. I think of all you instilled in me, and I hope it’s in them, too. It has to be. I feel like I see your reflection in every single one of their faces.

How come it feels like you are right here? What if you were? I wish you were.

The magnet in my gut threatens to pull me under the earth. The dichotomy of grief and life and existing create this atmosphere of constant disruptive collision. And it happens again and again, reminders of what I’ve lost and the reality of being alive at the same time. Joy and grief. Death and life.

I am currently peeking around corners trying to avoid the Mother’s Day ads, displays, emails, calendar reminders. I avert my eyes, I scroll quickly. I am feeling so deeply motherless; and yet, from the minute I get up to the minute I close my eyes, I am a mother. I am mothering every hour, holding four extra hearts inside my ribs. The waves of grief and joy wash up and over. I miss my mom, but she taught me how to do this. I want her here, but don’t I carry her with me everywhere? If anyone taught me to love my kids, it was because of how she loved me.

What if this is just the beginning of becoming? What if I am a better mom now than I ever was before? What if everything turns out better than I could imagine?

I’m a mom missing her mom. Not motherless. Never motherless. She was there for everything. And I wish she were here now. She would tell me I’m just like her. I know I am.

Wishing you were here, wishing you could answer every question I have. I feel motherless, but you’re also right here, nestled next to these kids in my heart. And if I quiet my mind for a moment, the words you would say start to resound. I know. You want the world for all of us. You always have. You’re the kind of mother who was selfless to the end, and I always loved that about you.

You taught me how to do this. I know I can do this, Mom. Mothering without you isn’t something I ever wanted to do. I always thought I would have you, a phone call away, listening to me complain and telling me it will be okay. But I know I can do this because you did this. You’ve always shown me how. Will you watch me as I keep going, as I find my way? I like to think you’re only just around the bend, just out of reach. As if I could peek around the corner and find you there. I remember we used to hold hands all the time when I was little. You were always within reach. And somehow, I think you still are.