Mama

Today is the 19th anniversary of the death of my mother. Next Saturday is my 30th birthday. It's strange to think that I've lived most of my life without my mother. It doesn't seem that way at all, and the loss I feel is still sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes even now. I've always felt that my life was set in motion the day she died. Though I did not have a mother, I'd lost my mother, and it has shaped the way I deal with my life on an everyday basis.

I was 10 years old the day she died. We'd just moved her into our house with a nurse from Hospice, and I was doing my math homework at the dining room table. (roman numerals, and I still to this day have no concept of how they work) My sister, 16 at the time, woke up suddenly from a nap and came into the living room where my mother was lying in a hospital bed. The nurse told us we should gather around, because she felt that it was time. We did, and in order, my father, my sister, and then myself, we told her that we loved her. I have this childish fear that she somehow slipped away before I said it, and that she died not knowing.

I remember gripping the rail of the bed in my hand and listening to her breathe. They became farther and farther apart. I hung on to each one like a lifeline, one more moment that I had with this woman who was my entire world. I remember all of them but her last. I guess that is because I didn't know it would be her last. The nurse told us that she was gone, and I don't remember much after that. I don't think that I cried.

There was a revival going on at the church I grew up in, and someone must've called someone to let them know Mom was gone, because they descended on my house a few hours later. I was in my sister's room, I think because it was the farthest away from the front door. They still found me, and I was encased in hugs from older women of the church, who, I am certain didn't want to leave me there. Only, they did. The only person I remember feeling comfortable around was Jason Barker, the younger brother of a friend of mine from church, who only said that he was sorry. Then he sat on my couch with me and watched the Honeymooner's episode of Moonlighting. It is the only episode I will not watch again, and I also flatly refuse to watch episodes of the Honeymooner's. How silly of me.

Today my sister called me when I got to work and we made arrangements to go put new flowers on my mother's grave. I still go there, with or without my family. I go when things are going well, when I'm confused about something, when I'm sad. I touch the cold marble and run my fingers over her name, and I ask her questions that never get answered. Sometimes when I go I sit in my car and listen to a song my friend Brett shared with me by P.O.D., called Thinking About Forever. The song is about his mother passing away, and he asks the question I most ask my mother when I go on those visits. "Mama, are you proud?" He then talks of his daughter and wishes his mother could see her. The next line is "If you can hear me, show me a sign, please send her a butterfly or two." I've seen butterflies at my mother's grave. This CD never leaves my car, and it's only for that reason.

Mama, are you proud? Mama, can you see me now?

This morning I went out on a smoke break with my friends, and as we were sitting there, what did I see, but a butterfly. It flew past us, and I turned my head and watched until I lost sight of it. I hope it was a sign from my mom, that she is watching, and that she is proud.

And so, with all the love, all the compassion for others, and (most especially) the irreverent humor that I inherited from my mom, I just want to say...

Dude, I hope she didn't see me smoking...

I love you, Mom. I miss you.