Five Years

Sadly, trying to write about my mom is like trying to write about the ocean. I can talk about how deep the ocean, how frightening its waves and soothing its sounds, but without tasting the salt and wetting your feet and laying prostrate on its beaches, you can’t know the ocean. Description without experience is lame.

For example, I can tell you that she was a great cook, but that paints an image of her standing over the stove, June Cleaver-esque, with an apron on and a spatula in her hand. It implies that we all sat around the table every evening and held hands as we said grace, and then politely stuffed our faces with meat and potatoes the way every God-fearing midwest family should.

But no, she was a great cook because she was our own short-order chef. If I felt like fried eggs, she made me eggs. If Dad wanted a sandwich and we were out of bread, she ran to the store, brought home bread and made him two. If Jordan was in the mood for steak, she acted like whipping up a steak was as easy as pouring a bowl of cereal.

Speaking of cereal, that, more than dinner, was our bonding time. When I was in high school, she would wait up for me, whether I was babysitting or kissing on my boyfriend in West Indy, and when I got home...usually four minutes to the dot past curfew...she would be up. We’d bring the box of Lucky Charms into the living room, and catch up on the day while we ate our weight in unnecessary carbs.

If I said she was patient, it sounds limp. Sometimes tolerance seems spineless unless you know its context. An oak tree seems common when you think about its acorns. But when you think its roots, it becomes mighty. 

Patience for mom meant that instead of blowing up at my brother when he said something sour, she’d tilt her head and give him this look, and say, “I don’t really deserve that.” 

Patience with her overdramatic daughter, who took every conversation and turned it back towards me. 

Mom: “What do you think I should get done to my hair?” 

Me: “I don’t know. The other day I was looking at magazines, and it made me realize that the hair I’m always drawn to, blah blah blah, and then he said that she said, blah blah blah...”

And I rarely brought it back around to her. Sometimes when I’m talking to people, I can tell that they’re not really listening, but rather waiting for their turn to say what’s in their head. 

And the only reason I can recognize it so clearly is because I did it for so long. Patience listens.

I rarely describe my mom as a pastor’s wife, because without enough explanation, that paints a pretty staunch picture, especially in the Bible belt. Most people, sadly, think of big hair and pious expressions, and somehow gold lame gets draped into the background of the image.

Mom did have big hair, but not on purpose. It’s because there wasn’t enough product in the world to tame her curls.  And she wasn’t flashy or pretentious . She bought her jewelry at 10 for $5 sales and wore it like understated, but perfectly set Israeli diamonds.

Her laughter, especially the kind that took her by surprise, was therapy for anyone who shared it. Medicine, indeed, but like cough syrup with a slow coating that you don’t even notice working until you realize you’re not coughing anymore.

Occasionally, someone will comment that every time I write, I write about my  mom. Maybe it’s because I’m still processing some of my grief, using my mourning as a muse. 

Maybe at some point, I’ll feel as if I’ve said all there is to say, like someone who writes about a kitchen sink. Describe the faucet, the drain, the window it looks out, the dishes that fill it, and then at some point decide, “There. Kitchen sink described. Moving on to the refrigerator...”

But right now, my mom is like the moon. Her memory is always in my atmosphere, even when the sun is shining and the wind is blowing through my hair, and the laughter of my son provides the soundtrack. Some days, this far into it, it’s as simple as that. Atmospheric. I live in memory of my mom. 

Other days, when the moon is full and and overpowering, my loss seems to be looming above every decision I make, weighing in on all my darkest corners. 

And other times, like dusk, she introduces herself slowly and seems so close and approachable that I’m convinced if I kept on reaching, I could touch her. But then the memory climbs into the sky. 

More and more these days, it’s less pain and more ache. A longing to share the details of my life now, to hear her voice talk to my son, and see his hands touch her hair like I used to. I want her to be a phone call away when I see something that would make her laugh, like a cheesy church sign that reads “It’s ok, Moses was once a basket case too.” Every once in a while I just want to lay on a bed with her, all spooned up, and hear her tell me that things are just the way they’re supposed to be. Or maybe just lay there and not say anything at all.