My Mom

My mother's name was Cindy and she passed away when I was 26 from a heart attack. She was 55. It was sudden and took us all by surprise. I never thought I'd lose my mother at this stage in my life, before I was married and had my children. She would have been an incredible grandmother. She was certainly one incredibly devoted and loving mother. I was an only child, so of course, I became a focal point of my parents attentions and hopes. more than I wanted to be; however, now I miss my mother tremendously.

I miss what I know she would do.. Talk about her grandchildren endlessly. Share and brag about their pictures. Send them gifts and save things just for them. I feel like my children are missing out on that-the kind of devotion and love that she she was overflowing with.

I do believe; however, that she is with us in ways that I can't even imagine...like a guradian angel..part of the mysterious Concourse on High.. Perhaps life would not be so good right now without her "protection"..I feel like she is helping protects us. perhaps.. And her influences..perhaps she whispers in our ears the guidance we need in those rough moments..Perhaps she soothes my children in their sleep.

One example of her love was that she read to me every night. I can't say enough how important it is to read to our children. Reading was something I looked forward to every evening. It comforted me..it was and expression her love, her time spent with me and because of that I have loved books, reading, learning..and because I loved books, I found a way to survive/and sometimes thrive in school.. And now, I read to my children every night..

I would like to write more about her in this blog..about her influence upon me..and about how that impacts my own "motherhood".."womanhood"

This is a poem I wrote about her a few years ago:



Squishy Love: Raw Memory
In my memory of
My Mother:
11/26/06

Body

Warmly soft voluptuous
Folds and handles
Sweat and rash
Womanly musk

Jagged cropped to quick fingernails
Striped stained shirt damp from dishes
Short straight black hair wet
Slow wobbled walk
Unhurried speech
A treasure map of side trips

Her eyes fiercely loving
Searched and squinted
Trying to understand
Straining to see


Soul

Her smiles like her name full of light
A complete unguarded eruption of joy
Gleamed in her eyes.
Her laugh robust, unchecked and unpretentious

An ox of will
A mission she holds fast
Generations of her mothers within her cells
Drive her onward

Strong, she ascended her damaged brain
Her mind remembered
Despite corporeal commands to forget
Her heart would later fail her
But never her will
Forever her will and her love
Perhaps she hugs me still
In the whisperings inside my soul


Lioness of love
Fierce and protective
In the layers of reign I’d feel overwhelmed
She’d see where I would try to hide
Under my bed or within myself
My childhood basked in it
My adolescence rejected it
…..My adulthood misses it….


Memories

Faithfully every night beside my bed,
She read stories
We journeyed together with
Imagined and real characters
A rabbit gentleman and
A spunky pioneer girl
Her low rich womanly voice
Stumbling over words
Soothed me
Into a safe, comforted slumber

Night fears were greeted with patience
She rocked me back into her womb, my refuge.
Her body like a luxuriant fleshy pillow heated my own
In the cold dark house
We snuggled in the company of the gentle ticking of the mantel clock
The humming refrigerator
The crunching wooden joints
As our weight strained the chair

On the couch, the three of us
Our Tradition of Laurence Welk and Waltons
Buttered popcorn and salty tears
Her touched heart would unveil
I fondly remember,
In the shake of the couch
A silent cry, like her unquiet laugh
Unmasked by her all familiar tremor




Her heart open and moved
The child inside
Footprints of who she has always been
Petals opening briefly
Revealing her sentimental heart

Walks, the two of us
Colored lights sparkling over
Snowy cold New Hampshire dusk
The smell of the cold metallic
Snow crunching and melting in my mouth
Memories of the
Quaint New England stores
The white gazebo and fountain
The steepled church -
The Queen of the traffic circle



What lives on…

Now I hold my own children
Against my milk filled breasts and spongy middle

I regret that they do not know her
I ache that I can no longer be a child in her arms
I mourn for my father’s loneliness and
I feel cheated of a mother’s comfort
When I most want a grandmother for my children.

But, in my touch I know it is like hers
And because of her, I can love my babies fiercely
I read to them as she read to me
And walk with them as she walked with me.

I even think that perhaps
Through my touch, they will know her
Squishy love
Someday, in the ethereal
The place where we all eventually
Mesh in a forever embrace