As summer breezes began to sweep in, the remnants of spring faded away. Flowers flourished, thirsting for nurturing care, while the pool shimmered under the azure sky. The backyard stood immaculate, eagerly awaiting the joys of summer. Yet, we found ourselves thrust into an unanticipated struggle—one for which we were woefully unprepared. Strength and resolve were summoned quickly, but the adversary was relentless and powerful. We had been outmaneuvered, and our aspirations fell flat. The once vibrant became frail in an instant; the unimaginable had transpired, leaving us grappling with the enormity of it all.
Life carried on around us, unwavering, even as my world ground to an abrupt halt. Despite our best efforts, my mother passed away on the first Saturday in August—the month of my birth, the day I had celebrated just 14 years earlier. It felt cruel, the final blow in a battle that had taken everything from us. Such tumultuous struggles leave behind scars and a heart heavy with anguish. Each day is a reminder that my mother is no longer here. My once-bright sky is now dimmed, my safety net torn.
Memories flood my mind, some crashing over me like towering waves, threatening to drown me in sorrow. Others come gently, lulling me into a sense of comfort. I yearn to remember, for forgetting is an unbearable thought.
I can visualize my younger self in my childhood bedroom, adorned with delicate pink flowers. My mother would lie beside me, soothing my nighttime fears. The gentle glow of the pink lady lamp filled the room, while the seven dwarfs perched above us. I can still see her pink elephant piggy bank in the adjacent room.
The scent of lemon Pledge fills the air on warm summer Saturdays as my mother dusts the mahogany tables; a familiar fragrance from my childhood. I can taste the cherry Cokes, warm brownies, and grandma’s cornbread dressing. Even after my grandmother’s passing, my mother continued to make that dressing, knowing it was a beloved favorite of mine. I wonder if I’ll ever taste it the same way again.
Flipping through a mental slideshow of family trips in our minivan, I recall the adventures at Lake Lure, Disney World, and the inevitable McDonald’s stomachaches. Each trip was its own unique adventure, though they were often fraught with chaos. Our cherished beach trips remain vivid—pelicans soaring overhead and the sun warming my face. Though I grew from child to adult, my mother’s face remained unchanged. I can still hear my laughter in the infamous home video as she struggles to climb the dock, her long hair flowing, her laughter mingling with mine. Years later, I can feel the salty sea air as she holds the hands of my children, her legacy living on.
Yet, shadows of difficult times linger in the corners of my mind. Text messages and frantic phone calls are preserved on my phone, chronicling my desperate attempts to advocate for her health. Ironically, the last musical we attended together was titled “Beautiful,” just a month before her passing. She seemed so perfect, so healthy. How could we have known?
People often say I resemble her, both in appearance and voice. It brings me sadness because I wish so deeply to see her, to hear her call my name once more. I want to feel her embrace, to experience that warmth one last time. But looking in the mirror, I don’t see her. I don’t hear her in my own voice.
However, I do see her hands. The memory of holding her hand on the day she died is both painful and beautiful. Those hands that nurtured me and provided comfort took on a bluish hue, a stark reminder of life slipping away. I could still hold her hand, but she could no longer hold mine. Those hands protected me, loved me.
Sometimes, when I look down at my own hands, they feel like hers. I remember rubbing my children’s heads when they have headaches, just like she did for me. In those moments, I can feel her love flowing through me, maintaining that connection.
Her life was beautiful, filled with joy, laughter, friendships, and love. I can only imagine the depth of her shock at realizing that all good things must end. She will never see Duke basketball games again, will never witness the growth of her grandchildren, nor share in those shopping trips we always planned. It’s an overwhelming sadness—the life that will never be lived.
I find solace in her belongings, the scent of her clothes. We chose many items together. Yet, when I call her name, there’s only silence. Birthdays come and go without her song, and I am left navigating the uncharted waters of life without my mother and her unconditional love. Losing the one who cherished you the most leaves a void—less of what makes me, me. I feel less certain, less secure, less loved.
Amid this uncertainty, I seek her guidance. I get into the car, planning to call her, and it hits me hard: she is gone. My son Lukas made the baseball team; she doesn’t know. Wren is participating in Girls on the Run; she’s unaware. I had my wisdom teeth removed, and she didn’t check on me. We’re facing a national crisis, and I can’t reach out to her.
She would have been worried about me. Missing the one person who cared deeply for my well-being can be overwhelming if I let it. The weight can feel unbearable at times.
Yet, I am a mother, a wife, a sister, and I am still her daughter. I must move forward and continue to live my life, carrying her love with me for strength. I am my mother’s daughter.
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Summary
The piece reflects on the profound loss of a mother, capturing the beauty and pain of memories that linger in the aftermath of her passing. It illustrates the struggle of navigating life without her guidance and love, while also embracing the legacy she left behind. The author highlights the bittersweet nature of memories and the ongoing journey of healing after such a significant loss.