Mother's Day without mom

Sometimes on Sundays when the sun is shining and the outdoors beckons, I get weepy. It’s probably just another aspect of the grieving that is still with me over a year after my mother’s death.
That’s because on rare Sundays in these complicated times, our family would still manage to come together. It was never with the regularity with which families used to gather before the intrusion of so many of life’s distractions, from sports events to crazed work schedules. But always, on those special Sundays, my mother, the family matriarch, was there, delighted just by the sight of her clan all together.
There was always special ecstasy for Mom in being with her great grandchildren, and they knew it and milked it for all it was worth. Her “goody bags” became legendary, with the older cousins coaching the little ones on how to wheedle a little bit of extra chocolate out of Mom-Mom.
How I wish I had truly appreciated those simple gatherings that came not on holidays and not on anyone’s birthday, but rather just on spring days when somehow, Palm Pilots and relentless schedules were set aside.
How I wish I had told Mom how much her presence meant to all of us.
One of the best photographs of my mother was taken on one of those Sundays during the last months of her life. It was taken on our deck, and in it, Mom is surrounded by small angels with dirty faces. The goody bags had been distributed, the chocolate was smeared on cheeks and hands, and Mom was sitting and beaming at her army of “smalls,” as we call these urchins.
The sun was shining down on us, the mood was mellow, and we were simply hanging out. A family – a miracle of biology and destiny – at play.
I would give anything to recreate that ordinary/extraordinary afternoon. I would give anything to lean over and give my mother a peck on her cheek, with its skin like parchment. To hear her laugh again.
It’s not news that we seldom appreciate what we have when we have it. It’s entirely human.
But the lesson always takes when things change, and when loss steps in and offers its reckoning. Birthdays and holidays and milestones are difficult. But it’s the more routine times, the times when your guard is down, some of the sharpest pain can come.
And yes, it’s especially awful around Mother’s Day.
Our family, like so many, is now scattered in too many zip codes. Now it takes endless phone calls and e-mails just to get us in one place at one time. And when we finally make it – when we can hug one another with outstretched arms, not electronic messages - it’s by definition a celebration.
Without Mom, it’s less so.
Without her beaming face and loving embrace, so much is missing.
If long ago, I dreamed of milestone events complete with engraved invitations and sophisticated wardrobes, I have since realized that for me, the sheer pleasure of a cluttered deck populated by the people I love would be plenty.
Children and grandchildren cascading through the house and filling it with their noise and energy.
Siblings quarreling as siblings do.
Food more junky than virtuous.
But no Mom. And we all wanted more of her.
The hospice that treated my mother in her final days continues to send me monthly bulletins. Always, there is a short summary of what the passing of the months may bring.
I welcome those notes because they validate so many of the feelings that are still with me, sometimes ambushing me in unexpected moments.
So I go back, sometimes, and read those hospice bulletins. The last one was particularly helpful. It chronicled the passage of time, and moments and how loss knows no timetable.
I keep it near in this Mother’s Day season.
“I have seen your face in a burst of sunshine, in clouds, in rain,” it read. “Your music called to me.”
And the kernel that resonates most for me:
“More than 365 days I have lived with your death… But now, I am learning to live with your life inside of mine.”

Sally Friedman