Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day hits hard for many; loss, estrangement, and tragedy are what make up the sentiments and feelings of this Sunday in May. Two years ago I observed my first Mother’s Day without my mother and it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Last year’s observation was at my sister’s house, with family gathered, as she lay dying. The cream-colored card from her son standing upright next to her bed was both beautiful and heartrending; how could we possibly celebrate that day?
This year, then, is my first Mother’s Day without my sister. The losses are piling up and I’m having some difficulty strolling through the greeting card section at the drug store. I’m there to pick up a card for my daughter — at least. My daughter in Arizona gets an email greeting. I get in and get out; looking at all the lavender and rose-scripted cards for Mother and Sister makes me feel like I’m walking through an emotional minefield. Anyone of them could make me explode into tears. Every day grief reminds me it arrives in various forms and signs and I am often at a loss knowing how to accept them. Lately, I just sit in my rocking chair and read or play a game on my phone until the painful and tender feeling subsides and I’m able to return to whatever I was doing before I was waylaid by such an insensitive messenger as grief.
I decided we would play it low-key — it’s pretty much our standard holiday conduct anyway. My kids would show up for lunch and we’d just hang out inside, since outside promised to be cold, gray and rainy. Perfect. I was motivated enough to straighten up the dining room table and had to clear a bookshelf off to shove some stray magazines and flyers onto. There was some slight annoyance on my part in having to clean up on Mother’s Day, but I forged ahead. I wasn’t going to do that much. Pulling out books, card games, Italian dictionaries and packing tape rolls, I found a little box painted gold and sprinkled with glitter. “Susie”, I thought. I know that craft-style anywhere. My sister was always bringing eclectic, unique and — to be honest — impractical “gifts.” Shards of colored glass tied together with copper wire to hang at my windows, cigar boxes with photos and pictures from magazines pasted inside and out. Anything she could rescue from the dump or her attic or the neighbor’s trash could be glued, painted, wired and nailed together and bestowed upon an unsuspecting family member or friend.
Here was one such gift. I held it in my hand and knew I would find her words inside. I wasn’t sure what they would be, but I was at once certain and hesitant to open it. Sure enough, inside the small box were several rolled pieces of paper. On one, a poem called The Small Box. Another in the shape of a heart, also painted, with more glitter. Then, I unfurled the last piece of red paper, which looked like she had ripped it off something else in order to use it. It said, in her hand, “I love you!”
In the year since Susie died, I have come across what others would call messages that seem impossible that they didn’t come from her — if I believed in such things. And, in a strange way, I feel pulled towards believing that she is communicating with me, except that I’m so pragmatic and practical that of course that can’t be the case. But if anyone can find a way to communicate from beyond, it’s Susie. And she would make sure to let me know she loved me, especially on Mother’s Day.
