I can think of only one time in my adult
life when I’ve wanted to physically assault another person. It was immediately
before a bridesmaid function. The bride berated her doting mother for being too
talkative with the vendor in charge of the rehearsal-dinner cake. She went on
and on, getting louder and louder, and we were in tight quarters. The mother chucklingly
blew the tantrum off. My mother’s 2-year death anniversary was a few weeks
away.
Her 9-year death anniversary came and went last
week. I worked late, commuted home, and went to bed at a decent hour. There
were no crying fits, there’s no longer a need for anyone to drive me around the
Catskills for the day to help cool my jets. Major holidays, including Mother’s
Day, also now feel the same as most days do. Earlier this year, I reflected on the anniversary of my late grandmother’s birthday. But I keep forgetting the date
of her death. Even though I always remember it, my late mother’s birthday hasn’t
affected me as deeply as her deathday used to. Official calendar dates are
given more significance than they deserve.
I’ve read about someone who gradually recognized that her late mother comes to her in the form of hummingbirds. Mine often communicates with me via a different winged creature, although she’s never allowed herself to be limited to one mode. While one of my loves (who lost his mom as a teenager) and I recently sat and happily chatted by an outdoor fountain for many minutes, our mothers were there too.
I’ve read about someone who gradually recognized that her late mother comes to her in the form of hummingbirds. Mine often communicates with me via a different winged creature, although she’s never allowed herself to be limited to one mode. While one of my loves (who lost his mom as a teenager) and I recently sat and happily chatted by an outdoor fountain for many minutes, our mothers were there too.