My mother died in March 1983, almost 30 years ago. She was 49 and I was 23.
A lot of living has happened in between then and now, joy and sadness and everyday stuff I would have loved sharing with her. At what age do you get over the ache of wanting to put your arms around your mom, snuggle on the couch together and just be?
I wish I were able to bring her back for a visit.
If I could have 1 day for each year, I’d have 30 days. Thirty days for her to get to know the outlaws (how our extended family refers to those souls fortunate enough to marry in). Wanda, Don, Stan and Phillip have personalities and talents she would have liked and interests she shared. And they could begin to know why we thought she was such a great mom.
Thirty days for her to wrap her love and laughter around the grandchildren she never knew. Did she dream of having them when we were young? Kristen, Alex, Emily, Heidi and Blair have heard the stories and seen the pictures, but none of that comes close to making up for not having been rocked in her lap, read to, and cherished as only a grandmother can do.
Thirty days for her four children to show her that her love, her tears, her prayers and her guidance were not given in vain. I think she would be proud of who we have become, of how we have tried to live up to the standards she set.
And at the end of thirty days, I would let her go. How could I keep her from the glories of heaven? Dad would be waiting for her. After being separated for 20 years after she died, I know he’d be waiting for her to get back to her rocking chair on the front porch of heaven, right next to his. And maybe, just maybe, this would hold me over for the next 30 years.