Mother's day. Lovely cards from my boys, messages and phone calls from my girls far away. A special brunch from my husband for me and my friend Markie. And a lovely walk in the Cox reservation, where we saw our first bobolink!
My fifth Mother's Day without my mother. I think that you never really get over your mother's death. I remember her still missing her own mum acutely, when she herself was in her eighties and my grandmother had already been dead for twenty years.
You just miss that love, that enfolding love that you had for your whole life, that singing in the car, cuddling in her bed, watching over your illnesses, empathising with your teenaged angst, keeping in contact every week once you had left home, that pride in your educational achievements, for the jobs you held, being there for your first baby, and your second, and your third and fourth a whole lot later, sharing all their infant developments, their learning leaps, their childhood ups and downs and teenage twirling you around, your decision to leave the country which broke her heart but wanted you to do, making the journey to America when she was already in her eighties, twice. She had more than a touch of class, my mother. She was a true lady. I sat in the meadow with long picturesque thoughts about her this evening.
I ran 1.45 miles only because my arm was very sore and swollen from a bee-sting. I look down at my arm to check the swelling and it is my mother's arm, with all the age-spots, the wrinkles. I used to hate resembling her but now I am happy to notice likenesses.
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