Missing Mom

You're never too old to need your mother.

I have missed my mother this Christmas season. It has come upon me in waves when I least expect it, usually when I am in my car, alone, driving somewhere to run an errand or buy a last minute gift. Sometimes, the feeling is prompted by a song on the radio that suddenly makes me think of her. At other times, when I am driving in solitude with only my thoughts for company, my mind will wander back to a time spent with her—not any time in particular, just a time when she and I were together; and without warning, I feel that familiar stab in the heart that tells me I miss my mother.

Almost every time the feeling of missing her ambushes me, I have an almost overwhelming desire to talk with her. I want to pick up the phone, dial her number and say those two words I haven’t been able to say for nearly three years now. Hi, Mom. I want to hear the excitement in her voice when she realizes it is me. I want to talk with her about nothing and about everything. I want to tell her about the book I’ve written, that I’ve gone back to church, that Baby Ray is walking, Aiden is the only first-grader in chess club and that Caleb made straight A’s in his first semester at UT. I want to hear her voice, the voice that was uncharacteristically deep and scratchy because her vocal chords were scarred by a thyroidectomy years ago. I want to say something funny to make her laugh. Oh, how I want to hear her laugh.

I want her to know that I need her to be here. I need to be the child and not the adult, which is ironic, since we didn’t really have that kind of relationship when she was alive. I was usually cast in the role of the mother. But she had her moments and I want one of those moments. I want to know that she is on the other end of the phone listening as I tell her my laundry list of complaints about my life and hear her say, Oh, I’m so sorry, darlin’.

I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I feel that I somehow failed her at the end, as if I could have kept her alive just by being there. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her and that I’m beginning to understand some things about her, now that it’s too late. I want her to know that I believe she was the best mother she was able to be. I would tell her that I know now that some things in this life just are the way they are and I realize she ran away from us because she just couldn’t take another minute of it. I’ve felt that quiet desperation that sticks to you like sweat in the middle of the night and I’ve wanted to run from it, too. And she would know (because she’s my mother) that I might feel it, but I would never run away because that’s not who I am. But it would help me to say that to her; and she would know that about me, too.

She would tell me I’m beautiful and smart and I would believe her. I would keep her on the phone for hours, not hanging up even when neither of us could think of anything else to say. Just knowing she was on the other end of the line would be enough for that moment. And then one of us would remember something else we wanted to say and our conversation would take off again, in a completely random direction. Just before we hung up, I would remember to tell her that I made chocolate meringue pies this year at Christmas; that I got the recipe from my sister and the pie tasted just like the ones she used to make. I would tell her I really miss her.

Finally, we would exhaust every topic and we would say our goodbyes. I would smile to myself as I disconnected the call. Then I would replay our conversation in my mind to store it away in my heart so that I could reach in and grab a piece of it when I need her the most. Best of all, I would spend the rest of the day remembering little pieces of our talk, with the hint of a smile on my lips with every memory. And I would feel strong again for a while.

If only I could call her…