The Things I Would Say

One year ago I wrote a blog about the first anniversary of my mother’s passing. Just yesterday my son asked me if I held any regrets in my heart, anything that I was sorry I had not done or said.

It seems so cliché, but the truth is I regret taking her for granted. I always thought she would be here, always waiting just behind her apartment door with some fresh cookies and a half-finished crossword.

I never thought about the day when I wouldn’t be able to email her for a favorite recipe or call to see if she had picked up my son from school because it was raining. I never thought there would be things I could not share with her.

This summer I will be four years cancer-free, but when I worry about a relapse, one of the things that scare me about that possibility is that she wouldn’t be here to talk to. I also know that she will never again sit at the foot of my bed and tell me everything will be okay.

So many times I was dropping by to pick up my son, or to bring something to her, or to get something from her, and I hurried along, so worried about the next place I had to be (or even just wanting to get home to unwind, decompress from the long work day). But as is so often the case, I didn’t think about the time when I wouldn’t be able to see her—the time when I wouldn’t have the luxury of her laugh or the gift of her comforting presence.

I try to tell my son how proud she would have been to see him becoming the young man he is, and how I am sure she still watches over him. I want him to understand how precious life is and how quickly it is gone, but how can I convince him?

I myself was never convinced.

Indeed it seems I am still not convinced. I trudge along as if there will be a never-ending parade of tomorrows. I procrastinate; I put off until tomorrow what I could easily do today—or worse, I wait to say the things that might never get to be said.

So to her I say:

I miss you so much, Mom. The weather is turning warm and the days are so much longer and I know you would love it. I have so many things in my heart that I wish I could share with you. Sometimes I feel frozen in time because I can’t admit you aren’t here anymore. I envy those who still have both their parents. I think about the fact that you are in a place so far beyond the sadness of this world that I should be happy for you, but I can’t help being so very, very brokenhearted just the same. When you were here I don’t know if made you feel special, but you were. You were my mother in so many ways that I couldn’t begin to write them here. You never let me down. Not ever. There were times I know you felt you had so little to give me, but that was only in a material sense. Within your soul you had every good thing in the world, and I always knew it.

I will never get over losing you.

The backseat is quiet.