Saturday, May 11, 2013

Mother


by ©Peggy Gabrielson


This year I admit openly my feelings of envy of those who have lost their mothers… those that have memories and photographs; so many more images to hold on to than I do of my mother. 


Just a few days ago I had a conversation with a friend who mentioned to me her writing journey of her parent’s life, both of her parents still living. Pulling out of her bag a handwritten journal of stories her mother shared with her she asked me, "how does one start the process of writing a book"?  

I sat quietly working on my project across from her showing no outward emotions, commenting with only a few words when directed at me to answer. If I raised my head my tears being held back would have fallen down my cheeks. Fearful that my sadness would be found out I looked down concentrating only on my design, patiently listening, and waiting for the conversation to turn around to another subject.  
My father holding my sister,
my Oma holding me,
(look at my cheeks)
my mother standing next to me.

I do not remember her, my mother. I was young, a toddler when she passed away. I must have loved her, but how did I show it? Did I cling on to her showing my love for her, my arms around her neck expressing with hugs and kisses? I pretend that I did.

I now understand the stories that were told to me as I grew up, how I cried all the time. For no apparent reason, I was a moody child? What do you do when a young child whose mother has died cries all the time? How could I have processed the loss of my mother’s presence in my life at such a young age? I was abandoned left alone.

Yesterday I grieved over my father’s death date. It had been several years since his passing, but feels as if it was just yesterday. I was reminiscing thinking about my visits to see him. We always remember the good times. I heard his voice in my ears, a phrase I heard him say often. I chuckled to myself as I repeated it out loud. My husband heard me, laughing along sharing of him.

I do have memories. Those of my father I hang on to tightly, afraid to let go, for they are mine. Others are made and cherished for my daughter and granddaughters to share and remember as theirs. 

Life Is Good! Inspiring Creative Minds!