Three years ago today,
my mother died.
Died is such a grim, harsh word.
People wince when I use it.
I find euphemisms for death
to be far too mild for the pain
felt when a piece of your heart
is torn away.
There are still some days when I find
myself, phone in hand, thumb searching
for her name as I settle in for the drive home.
And other days when I pick up my phone intending to
tell her just one quick thing.
That only happens some days.
Every day though...every single day
I think of her.
My mother was a good listener.
When I was in college I frequently called her to talk about assignments, professors, roommates and boys.
As a new mother I called about feedings, spit up, sleep schedules and feeling overwhelmed. I spoke of falling in love with each new precious gift from God and how blessed it felt to be their mother.
As a mother of one, two and then three, I called about naps, sibling rivalry, dance, karate and gymnastics. She listened to me worry about one or another or all three.
As a mother of pre-teens and teenagers I called for reassurance that they would like me again one day and that somewhere deep down they still loved me. She mostly listened but sometimes laughed when I swore that we never acted so rotten in our day.
As a teacher, I called for advice, encouragement and sympathy up until the very week before the surgery that revealed the horrible reason for her failing health.
And always. Always.
I called to hear her say, "Hello, my precious angel."
