Yesterday was Mothers Day. My son called me at 8:00 am, “Happy Mothers Day, Mom.” Relishing the moment, and robotically programmed, I reached out to call Mummy. Then stopped. She won’t take my call. Her phone is cut off. She doesn’t live there anymore.
Mummy stopped talking to me two years ago. I no longer hear her voice. I could if I wanted to. I had recorded her stories in the years before she passed, on those neat hand-held devices. But I haven’t had the heart to press the Play button. I did try once. It didn’t make me sad—just felt kind-of unreal; a feeling I couldn’t cope with. The recordings rest on my iTunes, and in the cabinet-drawers filed amongst the DVDs. Just have that comforting feeling that one day when I am ready, I will be able to watch her come alive and talk to me.
No more sad talk.
When I joined the ranks of daughters-of-mothers-lost, we made an unspoken promise. Mothers Day would be a day of thanks. My dear friend had lost her mother when she was but ten. I had my mother around to send me off to college, to vet my marriage proposals, to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day, to hold my first-born, to wave to the guests as she walked in the wedding procession of my children, and to sit by my side as I awaited the birth of my grandchild. Mummy was only a letter away when baby wouldn’t sleep through the night; only a phone call away when I didn’t know how to handle an adolescent son; and just a Skype away when my husband was diagnosed with cancer.
On this Mothers Day, I can only be grateful that I was blessed with my mother's presence for all those years of my life. Rest in peace, Mummy.
Happy Mothers Day!
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