Mom

She used to cuddle with me when I was little. She’d smile at me with that beaming look she had and hold me close and call it “girl time.” She had funny things to say and, even when I was all grown up, she could still make me laugh with her silliness.

I used to have more fun staying in than going out on Halloween because my dad would bring the tv set down into the living room and Mom and I would watch scary shows with me running to the door to give out treats (which I enjoyed). She always thanked me for taking care of that “job.”

We loved to watch horror movies together… they were pretty simple back in those days. She’d fake-shiver then give me a hug making it very exciting.

She had a delightful imagination… and such a way with words, she brought concepts to life with her stories!

She made a great lasagna, terrific fudge and yummy hot chocolate. When we were sick she would dress up a banana like a tropical native and call her “Chiquita Banana.” She’d walk into our “sick room” and sing, “I’m Chiquita Banana and I’ve come to say… eat your bananas every day,” like the commercial.

When I was a junior in high school, I got my hair professionally done for prom. It looked like crap. When I was a senior she did it for me. When my boyfriend brought my flowers, she ended up putting them into my hair. It was gorgeous.

We had some rocky times when I was a young adult. I was disrespectful. I was resentful. I had a huge chip on my shoulder. Still, when I came to visit, we would sit up and chat deep into the night. We discussed so many things. It has only been over the last five years or so that my mind hasn’t constantly been framing how I was going to tell Mom about this experience. We were both so verbal and analytical. Once the illness took over, she couldn’t really process well enough to have those kinds of conversations any more, but we could get her to talk about childhood experiences and sometimes she was so sharp. Always she was loving and appreciative. My Mom was so good at making people feel special.

I got the boxes of her things today that I had shipped to myself when I was down there clearing her room out. I could smell her fragrance on the scarves and sweaters and just hugged some of them to me feeling comfort just in their aroma.

Her favorite music box had been broken. When I was down there her aid told me that Mom was disappointed that it didn’t work. I goofed, with it but to no avail. When I took it out of the box tonight, I thought to myself, “Mom, if you’re really here then these music boxes will play.” I goofed with it again and nothing happened. “That figures,” I thought, then I pushed the button over one more time. Suddenly the music started up loud and clear without falter or hesitancy. I wished and hoped it WAS Mom, not just that I had figured out the right way to jiggle the button.

Mom has been dead one week and two hours.  Right now that is how I’m measuring time.