Love to Mom

The mother of a friend of mine died recently.  I asked my friend if there was anything she wished she could say to her mother now, and she said "I wish I'd told her I love her more often."  I immediately teared up because I have the same wish.  I don't have many regrets in my life, but one of them is that for too long, I took Mom for granted, and when I was a teenager, I was downright awful to her, neglectful, cranky, utterly unhelpful with chores even though she was working full time as a nurse.  She lived  long enough that I had the chance to mature enough to try to make up for those early years of self-absorption, but still, I have always wished that I'd been as loving toward her as she was toward me and everyone else who came within her orbit.  Now she's dead and every unspoken "I love you" clogs my throat.

After our parents died, my sister inherited the job of going through all the many boxes of memorabilia and photos which had rested, unopened, in their garage.  When I visited last weekend, sister gave me a packet of early writings, cards and letters she had discovered in that box, things I had sent to Mom and Dad which Mom had saved.  I was so indescribably happy to find more than a dozen Mother's Day and birthday cards I had sent to Mom over the years in which I wrote of my love, admiration, and appreciation of her and my deep gratitude for her kindness and wisdom.  These cards showed me that I had not been as neglectful as I'd feared, that I had told Mom many times how much I loved and cherished her.  It soothed my soul and untied a little knot of regret I'd been carrying in my heart.

I rediscovered this poem I had written to Mom, probably in the mid-90's, titled "Silver Memories": 

My lullabying Mama, rocking little Babs to sleep.

Yes, that's a silver memory I know I'll always keep.

My kitchen witchin' Mama making magic into dinner,

Making every crumb delicious.  Any wonder I'm not thinner?

My uniformed Nurse Mama, Florence Lindsay-Nightingale.

Still even now those healing hands can soothe me when I ail.

Teaching us good manners just in case we meet the Queen,

And singing silly songs while making dirty dishes clean.

Putting love and band-aids on our ouchies and our bruises.

No one yet has patented that special touch she uses.

My Mommy being joyous while dispensing hugs and kisses.

No, there's never been another like my lucky Daddy's missus.