32. Missing my mama

Yesterday marked 16 years without my mama. The day was difficult, but not because I was mourning her; on the contrary, I was so busy fighting invisible demons of the present that I didn't pause long enough to even notice the date. Now that the dust has settled a bit from Monday mayhem, I realize I miss her now more than ever. I need her advice desperately. She'd know just what to say about how to deal with her grandson's illness, and dealing with a teenager in general. She'd tell me not to worry, just to pray and then let God take care of it; that was her way of dealing with any problem. And, I gotta say, maybe it was that that made her one of the happiest, most joyful people on planet Earth. Even as I was doubtful--whereas she stood strong in her faith--she would have done anything to comfort me. She might have told me an anecdote about someone she'd known, and how they'd faced something similar. Or she'd dig up some quaint little saying, some bit of wisdom passed down through generations. Or she'd tell me about what I was like as a child and how my guardian angel looked out for me. Or maybe she'd just hold me and let me cry, dripping tears on her soft, pillowy shoulder. She'd insist that I was a good mama, but she'd for sure tell me what I could do better. And I would nod, knowing she was right; there are few other people whose advice I'd take so readily. Then she'd suggest we go for a drive out in the country, or read books together, or get busy with some project or other. Or she'd make me oven-fried chicken and her famous "million dollar" cake. And for a little bit, the world would right itself and be peaceful. 

Sixteen years have come and gone. I've almost forgotten the sound of her voice, but never the feel of her cheek. I'm not sure I could paint her face on a canvas from memory, but I know by heart her aged, but ever-capable hands. I can still feel her silky hair, and the knots I tried to comb out when she was so ill, too far gone to realize she shouldn't twist the strands endlessly, shouldn't put more hairpins in. I remember the pleasant, nonsensical sounds she made--she was far past lucid speech by that point, after her many strokes and the Alzheimer's disease had done their damage--when I sat her down in the garden on the shady side of the house and started combing and combing and combing her silvery hair. Occasionally she would point to a bird or a squirrel, or my father pulling weeds. Even then she had an innate curiosity and a sense of joy in simple things.

And maybe that was her secret all along. Maybe that's the thing she'd tell me to get through all the troubles in life: be curious, my daughter. See the joy in simple things. Because, after all is said and done, that's all we have. My son was nine months old when my mama left this plane of existence. He never got to know her. (If he had, I’m sure they’d be thick as thieves; she’d have charmed the adolescent right out of him when he was with her.) I must remind myself that the only way he will know her is through me. I only hope I can capture the best in her and show him the joy in simple things. It's what he most desperately needs.