12 years

I’ve thought often about what memories of my mother I’ll share with N.  It seems such a daunting task.  How can you ever convey the entirety of an entire beautiful (if brief) life in a few words?  Express all that energetic love in a single story?

So today, on the 12th anniversary of her death, I want to jot a few down for posterity:

  • She woke me up at 4:35am every single birthday.  She’d say, “Welcome to the world my darling daughter!” and I’d glare sleepily at her with as much scorn as a 7-year old could muster.  We’d almost always grab a birthday breakfast at a diner chain soon after.
  • She loved Christmas.  And decorations.  And tradition.  It was sacrosanct.  The Thanksgiving feast would start with a Christmas-themed present on my dining room chair, after we’d spent the afternoon as the turkey cooked wrapping the Christmas presents she’d always have fully purchased before Thanksgiving.  The decorating, tree cutting, house trimming, cookie baking, and light-hanging would continue on for the rest of the weekend.
  • She woke up early.  4:30am was late.  She’d get more done before dawn than most did in entire days.  She didn’t pass that vim and vigor on to me.
  • She always fell asleep with her TV on.  I’d sneak into her room and be the “TV fairy” and turn it off for the night, before I – night owl already at age 10 – would settle in for the night.
  • She loved me “’round the world and back again.”  Just as I love N.
  • She had a truly inspired way of making games out of tasks most could wouldn’t want to do.
  • She was fiercely protective of her only child, and defended my perfection to any who’d doubt it.  Sometimes her loyalty was well-earned, other times, she gave it to me in error.  Knowing she always stood behind me, though, made me strive to always prove her right.  I never wanted her to be wrong.
  • She was the embodiment of her red convertible.  Loud, but not offensive.  Proud, but not boastful.  Conspicuous, yes, but never flagrant.  How many nights we spent staring at the stars, reclined in those seats, listening to “our song.”

Ultimately, though, I know none of the items above will even come close to cutting it.  But, in the process of jotting them all down and tweeting with another IFer I had one final memory.  My mom would always get a little strange each February.  I don’t know how early on in our young lives we can tell when another human seems in distress, but I felt it annually from that point forward.  I’d never find her weeping in a corner, or losing her temper, or anything nearly that obvious.  I’d just silently sense her pain.  Her eyes would be duller, her ready laugh a little less genuine, her pep a little less present.  In retrospect, she’d act like a muted down version of how she’d act in the pain-med-addled final days of her battle with cancer.  She’d just cease to be my mom.

Somewhere in my mid teen years I got interested in genealogy.  Something about having so many dead immediate relatives, I think.  Anyway, I started asking about family statistics – birth and death dates, ages, places of birth, yadda, yadda.  That’s when I realized it.  My mom’s dad – my grandfather I could barely remember – died in February.  It clicked in an instant.  In that moment I knew the love she’d felt for that man more than I’d ever garnered from countless stories and anecdotes.  Her grief changed her mentally and physically.  A change so major even an self-centered 8 year old noted it.  This man must have been special.  This man really mattered.

I’m not thrilled at repeating this process, of having N intuit my pain so young, but I can only hope his conclusions are ultimately the same as mine.  That he one day knows both the anecdotes and visceral reactions her loss has had on me.  And that mom’s pain underscores the power of the grandma he’ll never know.

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