“Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story. Because hers is where yours begin.”
― Mitch Albom, For One More Day
I’ve thought about my mom a lot today.
Sixty-six years ago she was in labor, waiting for me to be born. I was her first baby and I was not waiting for my due date. This individualized perception of time is a pattern she’d battle and one I’d follow my entire life.
It’s only been the last year or so I’ve given myself time to think about my mom from an adult point of view. It’s been eye opening and heart breaking to look back with the knowledge I have from my own life experiences which intermingle with my childhood memories.
I miss her.
I love you, Mom.
“I didn’t get to grow up and pull away from her and bitch about her with my friends and confront her about the things I’d wished she’d done differently and then get older and understand that she had done the best she could and realize that what she had done was pretty damn good and take her fully back into my arms again. Her death had obliterated that. It had obliterated me. It had cut me short at the very height of my youthful arrogance. It had forced me to instantly grow up and forgive her every motherly fault at the same time that it kept me forever a child, my life both ended and begun in that premature place where we’d left off. She was my mother, but I was motherless. I was trapped by her, but utterly alone. She would always be the empty bowl that no one could full. I’d have to fill it myself again and again and again.”