My older brother called last week, right before Thanksgiving. He said he’d received a text asking if he’d come pick up a few large items I had requested of my mom’s. The sender of the text is obvious. And my number hasn’t changed. But anyway…. I didn’t cry. I was angry. But, sadness had not made an appearance. Yet.
The items I had requested include my mom’s Schwinn bike and a wrought iron patio table. The bike is from my mom’s childhood. The table is one of the few items I remember as long as I can remember. Both items traveled with us from divorce, to rental, to rental, to my adulthood. Why she kept these items in times of ultimate desperation, I’ll never understand. And why I didn’t receive any text including me in these item’s transfer from my mother’s former home (my former home) to my house, I’ll never understand either.
Life is such a hard and funny and awful, and beautiful and painful little thing. I’ve been so busy with 3 kids, managing grief, managing life, and a side job, that it seems I’d attempted to forget to feel.
That attempt failed today when a particularly stressful morning brought me to my knees, begging for something – anything, that would tell me I was going to be ok.
I miss my mom. I miss my life. I miss having that person who I knew loved me because they had to – because they were my mother. I miss trusting people with little doubt. I miss the confidence I felt in the belief I had in people. I question everyone now. I question everything.
I cling so tightly to the innocence of my children. At times it feels like the only thing that is truth.
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