Dear Ma,
It's Mother's Day again. This makes four. I guess I'm just going to have to accept that they're going to keep happening every year, no matter how I feel about it.
But, I can't say it's been a terrible day (cat pawing me in the face to wake me up and feed him not withstanding). I got a text from a good friend early this morning, checking on me, and assuring me that you'd be proud of me. I finished reading a book I really enjoyed. I took a nap. I ironed all the springy/summery clothes that were ridiculously wrinkled from being tucked away all winter (which is pretty much the only time I iron anything anymore). I watched a movie about Edgar Allan Poe (remember how much I loved him as a kid?), and I got caught up on Doctor Who (including another episode written by my favorite writer). Here it is 9 at night, and I'm still in my pajamas from last night with unbrushed hair. So, no, I can't say it was a particularly difficult or taxing day.
Although the hair thing, that's complicated. I've been letting my hair grow for more than a year now, because you used to say -- even years and years after I'd started wearing my hair short -- that every time we talked on the phone, you still pictured me with long hair. So, I decided I should have long(er) hair when we scatter your ashes this July. (I'm probably going to cut it short again after that, but who knows.) I still have one of those expensive hair brushes you used to buy me at Scot's Corners Pharmacy with the black handle and the orange rubber part that held the thick black bristles. It was imported from France or Italy and was ridiculously expensive, but it was one of the only brushes that could tame my thick hair. So you said. Anyway, I've had this brush since I first moved to Maine, and last week the handle broke off. I tossed the handle, but I couldn't bear to throw the bristle part away. Scot's Corners Pharmacy is long gone, and I doubt I'd find another brush like this. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to. I'm not going to get sentimental over a brush. It's not the brush that matters. It's just another reminder of things I've lost that I can't ever get back.
Being motherless is something I face every day. Some days are harder than others. What's difficult about this day is all the reminders of how many other people have mothers they love who they can see and talk to and just know are there when they need them. ...But the thing is, it's also a reminder of how many of us there are -- the ones who don't have that and will never have that again (and, in some cases, never even had it at all).
I've been writing a bunch of these kinds of letters lately. Not from me to you, but from Ramona to her dead mother. (It starts getting a little brain-squishy if you think about it too much, so don't.) I've been finding them harder to write than I expected (even when I steal generously from letters I've written you).
My horoscope today:
You can't quite get a handle on your emotions right now -- so don't bother trying to understand them precisely. Get a loose sense by telling a story that resonates with you in some way.That pretty much sums up my life....
Grief is a tricky landscape to navigate, that's for sure. And, I hope my friend was right, that you'd be proud of the way I've made my way through it.
This day used to be a painful reminder of things I'd lost, things I'll never have in the future. (It still is to some extent.) But for now, it's a reminder of some of the things I still need to plan, some of the details I can't let slip, because there are a finite number of adventures left, and I intend to make the most of them.
Love you, Ma. Always.
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