Requiem for Mom

My mom died. I wrote that sentence a hundred times in a hundred different ways, all equal in their floweriness and complicated sentence structures. All versions sounded equally ridiculous. Perhaps a harsh and unforgiving occurrence needs a harsh and unforgiving opening line. Truth be told, I don’t want to write about her death this week. It’s just that I can’t seem to write about anything else. Besides, at 12:30 am it will mark one week since her passing. I haven’t cried all day today. Before this column is finished, that will all change. If you feel like crying along with me, I’d appreciate the company. This is what we call a full-blown mascara alert. Spoiler: I thought, as this is not my first rodeo in the substantial loss and grief arena, I could get through the passing of my mother somewhat unscathed.

I’ve never been more wrong about anything in my life.

Momma loved Mitch Albom, the author. I lost count of the number of times she read Tuesdays with Morrie. And, when The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto came out in 2015, she proclaimed it the best book she’d ever read. “Better than Clan of the Cave Bear?” I asked. “Well, I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe.” I pressed harder. “Better than Jan Karon’s Mitford series?” I asked. “Ohhh,” I recall her saying, “that’s not even fair.” I pressed even harder. “Better than the unauthorized biography of John Wayne?” She cut her eyes at me slyly. “You don’t play around.” So, because my wounds are so fresh and my heart is so broken and my brain is so numb, I decided to see what old Mitch had to say about the passing of a mother. He did not disappoint. “But she wasn’t around, and that’s the thing when your parents die, you feel like instead of going into every fight with backup, you are going into every fight alone.” Mitch is right. I feel defenseless, mortally wounded, and extremely scared. Friends come and go. Children move away and lead their own lives. But, a mother always has your back in that “my child can do no wrong” way that no one else can offer you. I don’t have that anymore. There’s no one to call and gripe to about the world’s injustices. There is no one who, even though they should probably correct me and point out my contribution to whatever catastrophe fell into my lap, will profess their belief in my rightness and the other party’s wrongness. I’ve lost my soft place to land.

My mom was larger than life. She was so very tall and, oftentimes, so very loud. Her voice was deep. Her country accent was thick enough to carve with a whittling knife. She had that way of adding all vowels to words that only really needed one. But, I grew up in an era where little girls were rewarded for things like acquiescence, silence, and never forgetting to cross your legs at the ankle when you sat down. It’s like she was determined to make sure I had the social graces that she may have felt she lacked. Thus, I’ve always had a difficult time standing up for myself. Even now, my therapist of 6 months is still saying my name wrong, and I cannot seem to find the words to correct her. My mom always did those things for me. A few years ago, we went to Chick-fil-A together. Mom didn’t frequent fast food places, so we held back for a moment as I explained the menu and which things were my favorites. When we approached the counter, I ordered first and then stepped aside so she could tell the server what she wanted to eat. But my mother, in her distinctive way of making sure her daughter got exactly what she needed, decided she should repeat my order at full Marsha volume. “She said she wanted some kind of broccoli side or something like that and she wants a diet coke. Did you get that?” This was barked at a deafening decibel. Teenage me would’ve crawled under a booth table. But, adult me just smiled. “Thank you, Momma. I believe you’re right. He probably didn’t hear me.” I’ve lost my champion, my defender, my maternal megaphone.

Mom didn’t know of J.K. Rowling’s talents. She could not have discerned a Gryffindor from a Slytherin nor a Hermione Granger from a Ron Weasley. Looking back, I’m incredibly impressed at how well read my mother was, but Harry Potter just wasn’t her thing. Yet, J.K. Rowling’s comment on mothers touched me. She was working on the first Potter book when her mother passed, never knowing of her daughter’s immense success. J.K. wrote about mothers in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, “Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign…to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very own skin. Quirrel, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person, marked by something so good.”

Mom, you have marked my very soul. I hope the whole world can see that mark, for I wear it proudly for always and forever. Rest well, sweet Marsha. Your work here is done. And, by the way, you freaking aced it.