It’s been a while since I talked to you Momma. Going from talking every day to not at all is a hard thing to manage. Real hard.
I used to still talk to you, even after you went away. Just because you left this earth I saw it as no barrier to the great conversations we had. So I’d talk to you. Every day, even though you couldn’t answer back. Would never answer back in fact.
I’d just want to call you so bad, tell you about my day, hear your advice. You could always make me laugh at a situation I had seen as infuriating. You had that way about you.
But when I couldn’t call and hear your voice I would feel like someone reached down my throat and pulled out my insides. So I would look at your picture and we’d just talk. Like we used to.
Sometimes I didn’t say much. Sometimes I’d just look at your picture and cry. Real hard. I’d cry out “Momma, Momma, Momma!” But you wouldn’t answer me.
As the years have gone by I stopped calling your name. I look at your picture still, more times than anyone knows. But if I look and then feel the tears threaten as your name tries to escape from my tortured throat, I look away.
I’m sorry Momma, but I look away. It just got too hard wanting to sit down with you, have a heart-to-heart, and then be bombarded with the reality that I could not. It just hurt too bad.
It hurt wanting you to be here with me, so I started trying to understand that you couldn’t be.
I started trying to understand that I couldn’t see you now, but I could one day.
I started realizing that even as you were gone from this world I still saw glimpses of you everywhere.
I saw you in simple things like my signature, realizing our cursive was one in the same. I heard your voice when I listened to a recording of myself.
I saw glimmers of you in my first child’s features. Then as she developed a personality I saw you even more.
I had a second child and I saw you again, the shape of your eyes, a mischievous grin.
They talk about you too, you know? The girls. I make sure they know, that even though they can’t see you in the flesh, that they understand how much you glowed. Because even when you didn’t think you did; you did. I’m like you in that way I think. I forget I shine.
As I was swinging the eldest yesterday she asked me if you could see her, see how she swung so high, touching the sky, almost touching you.
I didn’t know the answer Momma. I wanted to say yes, that you saw it all, but how could I? How could I answer the question that I often asked myself.
So many times I’m the little girl saying, “Momma, Momma? Can you see me? Look how high I can go!”
Do you see me?
I miss you so much that it hurts to talk to you much anymore. It’s not because I love you less, but because you don’t answer back. My heart hurts deep with that silence.
But even if I don’t speak first the silence of your presence, or lack there of, sneaks upon me, breaking my heart anew just like it did on the day you died.
It’s a silence of my heart stopping when I remember that you’re gone.
As I walked through the store yesterday I was confronted with flowers, candies, and cards galore. “Happy Mother’s Day” the signs screamed. But my heart was silent in that moment. It was hushed by a longing for my Momma.
It’s just a day I know, but it somehow, in a small part acts like lemon juice to my paper cut. It stings my memory with the reality that you are gone.
No hugs. No more shaking my head, amused at your inappropriate jokes. No more hearing you say in the happiest voice I know, “All my chicks are home!”
I understand Momma. I got my own chicks now.
Don’t worry. There’s happiness also. I will celebrate tomorrow night. It will be my day, a celebration of the gift of motherhood. But there will be a hollow place that resides inside me, unable to rejoice in a holiday with only your memory present.
Bittersweet.
How can a memory make me so happy, but also make me feel so sad?
I’m sorry we don’t talk like we used to Momma. It just makes me so sad. I do take comfort in the catching up we will have one day.
I’ll love you always, forever, and then some more. Even when I don’t speak, I’m still thinking of you.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Teena says
Tears tears and more tears as I read this. Brie I can not begin to imagine what you feel with your mom being in heaven. I can’t imagine the pain and the hurt your feel at times or all the time. God bless you and lay his hand on you. I have told you before and will tell you again your mom is watching over you and she has a smile on her face at what an amazing lady you are.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so very much for taking the time to comment and offer me comfort. I appreciate that, more than you know.