298/365

three things I wish I could tell my mom right now:

that texas fleamarket really is as wild and sprawling and wonderful as we thought it would be
cousin kristy has a beautiful, bright five year-old girl and is so happy now
you are missed, mom, you are so sorely missed

163/365

things my mother taught me:

how to be silly
how to be generous
how to pick strawberries and blackberries
how to make a lot with a little
how to bake brownies from scratch
how to make a home feel like home
how to make birthdays inordinately special
how to cultivate collections
how to honor family heirlooms
how to make the library a regular part of life
how to keep a prayer journal
how to road trip on a shoestring budget
how to wrap presents all pretty-like
how to paint nails all pretty-like
how to look at things realistically
how to make christmas feel like magic
how to put on a pair of pantyhose
how to throw a humdinger of a yard sale
how to rock mary kay cosmetics
how to work the fleamarket like a pro
how to bake red velvet cake 
how to bake gooey butter cake
how to make groceries stretch for days
how to care for people
how to love God
how to be thankful
how to laugh
how to cry

I miss you, mom.

82/365

things that make me think of my mom:

cardinals
quilts
pink skies
ironstone pitchers
scottie dogs
olive garden
the color pink

48/365

things I'd like to tell my mom, who would have been 73 today:

I miss you
I love you
it's hard without you
and oh my goodness you would be so proud of ava and ezra

motherhood with a camera

her hands are my hands are my daughter's hands.

strong, capable. veins like little green rivers, skin like butter and butcher paper. and that ring she wore, that sterling silver dogwood ring, the one I can't ever remember not on her middle left finger. on that day, she took the hands of her mother, my grandmother, and danced. grandma's cheeks pink with rouge, a creamy coral dabbed on just before mom slipped strands of plastic yellow beads around her neck. this was the ritual: rouge, necklaces, music, dancing. I watched from the edges, willed myself to ignore the scent of lysol and urine, concentrated instead on the faraway radio sounds of dolly parton and the two dancers in the room. they lit the place up, spilled light into dark nursing home corners for a few minutes, corners no one likes to talk about.

in just two short years, just one year after her own mother, she would be gone. how could I have known this? how could any of us have known this? in those last days, I held her hands in mine, sat by her bed while she slipped in and out of sleep, in and out of that deep, unknown place morphine takes people when the pain is too much, the world is too much and the cancer is about to swallow them whole. I sat by her bed and held her hands, tv flickering and murmuring in the background, toddlers and tiaras and wild gyspy teenagers on repeat while my worst nightmare played out in real time. I held her hands like she held mine on the first day of school, on the way to my first dance class, the first time I had my heart broken. I held her hands the way she held her own mother's hands the day they danced at the nursing home. I held them and I pleaded with her to live. quietly, desperately. please, please live. I pleaded with God for the miracle of all miracles, pleaded in shameless, messy ways, over and over and over again.

a few months after she died, I found her jewelry pouch. tucked beneath a tangle of polyester slips and snagged pairs of pantyhose, there it was. all my favorite pieces were there; the bracelet with the little silver charms she'd collected while traveling through europe when she was in college, the oval locket my dad had given her for christmas one year, the one that held the teeny tiny baby pictures of us inside, the collection of silver bangles with turquoise stones and the ring. good lord, the sterling silver dogwood ring, the one I can't ever remember her not wearing. as much a part of her appearance as the small, crescent-shaped scar on her cheekbone and the amber brown color of her eyes. I slipped it on my left middle finger and gasped. there she was. in the shape of my hand, in the color and texture of my skin, in the way her signature ring looked on my left middle finger. she was as close as my left hand, I could see her, feel her, any time I stopped to look down.

my own daughter's hands look nothing like mine. her fingers are long and slender, her skin noticeably smoother and fairer in complexion. hers are the hands of a possible concert pianist, an aristocrat, further proof of the mysteries of genetics. though once interlaced with mine, the differences mostly fall away. ava held my hand on some pretty unthinkable days, through some pretty unthinkable weeks and months, through the endless before and after. she held my hand when I shut down and pushed everyone else away, and then when I pretended I was fine. she was quiet but sure about it and acted with the same gentle tenacity as her grandmother, my mother, did for so many years.

her hands are my hands are my mother's hands.

she'll slip the sterling silver dogwood ring on her middle left finger one of these days and she'll see me, feel me. she'll remember her grandmother too. she'll look down when she needs to and know. we're as close as her left hand. closer, even. she'll know this. the ring on her hand will remind her.

(first written for motherhood with a camera, a space lovingly carved out by the luminous amy grace)

this is my new favorite thing

maybe you're tired of hearing about and/or seeing engineer prints, I don't know. they're all over the internet, have been for years. but that doesn't really change how I feel about the one I recently (finally) had made of a favorite photograph of my mom. when I unrolled the finished product, I wanted to cry. my mom in amsterdam in the early sixties, fresh out of college. those penny loafers, that camera case. the flip of her hair, the look on her face. the details on the sleeve of her dress, the details in the background, bits and pieces of a nineteen-sixty-something amsterdam. and my mom.

my mom.

like I said, new favorite thing. favorite of all my favorite things. and I'll tell you, that's saying a lot.

68

today, she would have been 68. my mom would have been 68. two years ago today, she wore that little crown, blew that little party horn. I sent them in a package, gave her strict instructions, I made sure said instructions were followed. I couldn't be there to celebrate with her but I sent a box full of happy in my place. and I'm thankful that at least there was that. but oh to have hopped on a plane, to have been with her one last birthday.

today, I will buy her favorite flowers. listen to her favorite music, watch her favorite movies. I will wear her favorite silver dogwood ring, her favorite turquoise bracelets. I'll see her everywhere I look, in the shape of my hands, the color and texture of my skin, hear her in the way I speak, feel her in the way I stand at the kitchen sink, weight rested squarely in the left hip, right foot extended. I will see her light in the eyes of ezra and ava. there will be cake, there will be candles. I'll wear the crown she wore, blow the horn she blew that last birthday. then I'll slip them back into that soft yellow envelope, tuck it back into the suitcase that holds all the special things.

happy birthday, mom. I love you.

because, christmas

am currently steeped in that lovely thing they call christmas. am back to pinching the ends off christmas tree branches for the smell of the sap, falling asleep with all the christmas lights on. am sneaking bites of leftover red velvet birthday cake in the middle of the night, waking up with teeth tinged pink. am realizing just how much I love the smell of scotch tape. scotch tape= wrapped presents.

am teaching my kids the carols I grew up singing, the ones that celebrate the birth of jesus. the ones I used to sing so loud I thought my ears would pop off, thought my cheeks would burst from the happy. am remembering my big part in the church pageant, my one big line and how I tripped over the hem of my floor-length ivory dress on the way to the microphone stand. am remembering the way I popped right back up, how the adults in the audience struggled to stifle their laughter while tears burned my eyes. I delivered that line anyway. LIKE A CHAMP. nothing could destroy my christmas spirit, I tell you. nothing.

am not suppressing the sadness. but I'm not swimming in it either. am setting out her little trees, baking her cookies, singing her songs. am remembering just how special she made each christmas, how much of a gift that was. am doing everything I can to keep that part of her alive. am celebrating even when I feel like crying because, christmas. christmas.

that's how the light gets in

the truth is that I can't wait for this to day to be over. three hours, forty-three minutes and it will officially be over. I know that's not what I'm supposed to say. it's certainly not how I'm supposed to feel. but there it is. first mother's day without the extraordinary woman who brought me into this world and the minutes are crawling by.

I want one more mother's day with her. one more chance to tell her how much I love her. one more chance to spoil her with fancy face creams and papery pink peonies, with little things for her collections and bright yellow boxes of candy dots and handmade cards. actually, I want more than one more mother's day with her. I want all of the days, all of them. I know I can't have them but I want them.

I would be remiss if I did not mention how hard my own little family tried to make the day just a little bit softer for me. fresh cut tulips, watercolor paintings, hand-drawn portraits. cupcakes. photobooths. still, the day has been wobbly, at best. I knew it, they knew it. what else could we do but muddle through? the best gift I received came just after lunch, in the form of a small, sweet hand in mine. I'd turned away so they would not see me cry and both of them came to me, both my kids, and they sat there in that pain with me while I told them. in a small voice that did not even sound like my own, I told them. I miss my mom. I just really really miss my mom.

I told them I was sorry I'd been so grouchy and so quiet, that I would try not to be grouchy and quiet for the rest of the afternoon. which is when the day broke open a little, just enough to let a little light in. and you know, it's true what they say about the cracks in things, that that's how the light gets in. it's true. because that's how we got through today. that's how I'll get through these last few hours.

and I will say it, even though she can't hear me. I will say it every year that I'm alive, I will say it because I can. happy mother's day, mom. I love you.

thank you

thank you for the kind words, friends. for all the comments you've left, the emails and texts and cards you've sent. thank you. 

I can think of no better way to repay your many kindnesses than to share a little bit of her with you here. a video tribute put together by me and my brother in those furiously blurry few days before we laid her to rest. a barrage of old photographs and old home movie footage but so much more. so, so much more. her life, her light. my beautiful, amazing mom.

this is a picture I did not take

friends, I lost my mom. a few weeks ago, I lost my best friend. and I know she has a brand new body now, I know she's free from all pain and suffering but I am heartbroken.

this is a picture I did not take:

of us gathered around her bed early, early morning. my dad, my two brothers, holding hands, holding her hands, telling her how much we loved her as she took her last breath.

of the way the light looked in her room that morning, the way it flung itself in slanted shapes across the wall opposite her bed.

of the way the sky turned pink the day we laid her to rest. spectacularly, gloriously pink for just a few short minutes, just before dark. indeed, pink was her color.

what's strange is the way the world just keeps spinning. how everyday is still everyday. kids still need to be fed, laundry still needs to be done, bills still need to be paid. I have jumped right back in because what else can I do? I will tell you, there are moments when the reality hits me and the weight of it nearly brings me to my knees. it's like no pain I have ever, ever known.

friends, I miss my mom.