Mother’s Day

I remember going to church as a child on Mother’s Day. If people wore a white rose, it meant that their mother was dead. I thought that was sad, and still do. Now I am sad on Mother’s Day and there is no white rose for that.

My son and I are alive on a lonely planet and we do our best to keep on keeping on. Both sensitive and scarred, we do okay. But we tend not to celebrate most occasions. Today we will eat our leftovers from the Mexican restaurant. He will likely go to the Silver Comet trail and I will take a walk in the evening.

Finally, finally, peace has arrived in very small doses. We have given up on fitting in although we are quite respectable. We just can’t carry celebration off like other people can.

Our photo was taken by a stranger waiting to get into the restaurant last evening. I see that we look alike. Our daughter looked like Bob. Rob and I share a love of comedy and privacy. I think we are both used to emotional trauma at this point and try to avoid more of it.

The last time we had words was the day I came home from the hospital in November. So exhausted we could not contain ourselves, we stood in the kitchen saying things we normally would not say. Later I apologized and he stood silent. I had started it and he had done nothing but cope as best he could.

Life goes on. I am typing this before getting dressed and it is eleven a.m. It is record-breakingly hot so I will stay inside until evening. Then I will get out and walk.

For those of you who read my words, I thank you. The gift I have for sharing my life seems to rely on honesty on an emotional level. It stops on the page, though. I am reticent and retiring socially. No one really knows the burden of burying a child except those that have. And to them I extend a cosmic hug. They know who they are, for they cannot forget. A white rose would not suffice to heal their broken hearts.

Vicki Woodyard