I miss my mommy

One year ago this very moment, I was holding my mother's hand as she had a small seizure about an hour before she died. Her eyes flew open and she stared, almost as if in amazement. Eunice said later that she believes that happens when the dying see the angels in their terrible glory. I gave her more liquid morphine to relax her body. She was very close to dying and that was obvious to me. I had been listening to her racing heart all day. It couldn't last much longer.

Comfort comes when I remember that Mom wanted to be done with this world, to join my father, her one and only sweetheart, once more. But that's a double-edged sword, because we, I, wasn't enough for her to want to stick around. Comfort comes when I acknowledge that my life is mostly my own again, my obligations fully discharged. Comfort comes when I remember that Mom was suffering with dementia and is now at peace.

But sometimes a girl needs her mommy. Sometimes she needs to ask, "What should I do?" or "What would you do?" Sometimes she wants to hear old stories told one more time, like the story of her birth: You were the only white baby in the nursery, and you had a shock of white hair. Your father stood in the window with all the other fathers and said, "I wonder which one is mine?"

My friend Angela reminded me today that we were lucky to have such good parents. I didn't have to struggle to find my way in a broken or unhappy home. I always knew I was loved. I always felt safe. My parents were always there for me.

Perhaps that doesn't end with death. I do feel loved and safe. But I sure do miss the kisses and hugs, and the distinct and priceless sound of their voices calling my name.