Motherless on Mother’s Day, it’s bittersweet to be on any form of social media. It’s hard to watch people on the street holding bouquets of flowers and line up in front of high-end restaurants.
I have something like love for a mother that doesn’t exist. I want to feel that warmth and comfort, the security in knowing someone will sacrifice anything to ensure my well-being and happiness.
I think about her when I felt the cold empty space when I sensed I was intruding on friends’ family functions. I think about her every time I receive kindness I don’t expect. I’ve thought about her whenever I feel compelled to clean up after others and no one notices. I think about her a lot when her words tumble out of his mouth. I think about her when I try to figure out how best to love others.
I think about her when I feel alone in ordinary moments:
a flip of a switch,
a voice at the door,
a creamy blanket,
a wiping motion,
retrieving a glass of water,
letters organized neatly,
a garage door,
a gentle touch on the shoulder,
a doodle on my to-do lists,
words of forgiveness,
a dressing room,
freshly cut fruit.
I know what moms are supposed to be like, what they do, how it feels to be taken care of and loved unconditionally and treasured, to be comforted and looked out for, to be doted on, reprimanded “for your own good”. My mom’s mom gave up her life for her child. My mom wanted me to have a better life than she could provide. At least in my family, sacrifice runs in our blood.
A mundane domestic scene, yet somehow a poignant display of unconditional love.