“How old was your Mom?” Betty asked.

What’s that got to do with it? I thought.  “Eighty-one and a half,” I said.  But that’s not all I wanted to say.  Just because a person is older, doesn’t mean it’s their ‘time’ to die.  Mom was unique–she wasn’t old, no matter how many years she had on her.

Mom wasn’t the milk and cookies kind of mom, not the rocking chair gramma.  My memories of her were blended with what she instilled in us – we could do anything.  The five of us grew up with that truth – we could do whatever we wanted, if we worked at it.

Eighty-one and a half?  She’d be old someday.  I could’ve prepared myself for her death, her funeral.  I could have talked with her about the day when she wouldn’t be here anymore; I would listen to her hushed words about the finality of life.  I could visualize those conversations, that preparation.  I knew it was coming, but I thought there would be a realization inside my head that next month would be the last, or that a particular day would be the end.  It wasn’t like that.  I expected each day to be followed by another.  I took the time I’d been given for granted.

“She lived a long and fruitful life,” Betty continued.  But I wasn’t ready for it to be over.

“One of these days,” Mom said, “I’ll be gone; you’ll miss me.”

“You’ll be gone someday, Mom, but not this day.”  My three sisters, one brother and I live far from each other geographically, but are close mentally, alike emotionally.  Mom had a special influence on each of us, our desire to create, turning ideas into poetry, music, short-stories  or articles, asserting ourselves in a situation whether a school spelling bee or a company reorganization.  In a world unsure of the value of family losing touch, we know we’re together no matter where we live.  That came from Mom, from Dad.

Seminars, psychological sessions, short-stories are packed with the how – when – why of dealing with the loss of a parent and we’re told how to survive the death, or know if we should void the vacancy.  When a parent dies, you feel the sudden loneliness–the craving for conversation that continues long after the funeral.  If I could see my mom one more time, I’d talk about the smartness of a land buy, the wisdom of buying a house with a low mortgage, then listen to her excitement and ideas.  Why didn’t I take time to tell her one more thing–to talk about the future when she said, “One of these days, you’ll miss me–one of these days you’ll be sorry when I’m gone.”

Mom was special, I hang on to my memories–mental images of a lady who was liberated far ahead of her peers, rare talent emerging at essential times–poetry for praise and comfort, a verse for variety.

From her busy, bustling cloud in Heaven, I know she’s watching.  Her look at reality is truth once again.  You’re right, Mom, I do miss you.  You’re right.  I should’ve taken more time to visit, to call, to write.  I know it now.

Copyright Myrna Estey Coleman

I was brought up to believe that I could do anything.  Somewhere, many years ago, I knew that.  Mom said it, so it was true.  “Any class, any school, any job, any person, any situation, will have a problem some day.  When that happens, you need to figure out what it is, and get through it.”  I learned, not to just get through it, but to make it better.  I could listen, I had ideas.  Sometimes they worked.  Miss Fixit, they called me .  To me, knowing I could do anything was part of who I was.  If at first… you know… you had to keep trying.  So I did.  Challenges were expected, fun to overcome.  Some thought I was a little too sunny for my own good.  I remember being in the girls bathroom in grade school, in one of the stalls, and some girls were at the sinks, talking about ME.  “All she ever does is figure out what’s good about everything,” they said.  “If the world was coming to an end”, they said, “she’d say, ‘well at least it’s a good day for it.'”

Copyright Myrna Estey Coleman