A Life I Never Knew

I was three when she left home. Well, I mean it’s not like she abandoned us; she just started working again. My grandmother came to live with us and take care of us. I don’t really remember much before Grammie moved in. I don’t remember those years of staying home with Mom or Mom not having a job. She drove 45 minutes to work, five days a week. On Sundays she would drive us to church in her pajamas and drop us off. Sometimes I feel robbed of memories. When I try to remember, I realize there is nothing there. There were no great mother-daughter secrets and outings, no ice cream in the middle of the night or special rituals. She was just Mom. She was always at work and that’s just how it was. I suppose that’s not completely true, though, now that I really think about it, now that I’m dwelling on it and pitying myself. She was active in my Girl Scouts’ Troop and my Bethel in Job’s Daughters. She was Cookie Captain for crying out loud! So, I guess she was there, but it’s hard to remember. I remember wishing in elementary school that my parents would get a divorce. They were always fighting and I hated it. I never saw them hug or kiss, and they never said ‘I love you’ to each other, or to us as a matter of fact. As I grew up, I realized that that was just my dad and how he communicates and that my parents had a very special relationship and loved each other very much and complemented each other well. My dad was so upset when she died, and her family treated him so much like crap, and it really pissed me off. He devoted his life to her, literally those last few months. He waited on her hand and foot, 24/7, never sleeping, barely eating; all that mattered was her. Anyway, so my point was, assuming I had one, that I never really knew her. I learned more about my mother in the weeks following her death than I did in the 22 and a half years that I knew her, and sometimes I wonder if that’s my fault, if I should have made an effort to learn more about her, to talk to her and better myself through listening to what she had to offer. I just wish I had had more time, that I could have realized all the wonderful things she had done and that she had to offer to me and the rest of the world before it was too late, before she was stuck in a bed and barely knew my name. I don’t want to sound self-pitying or say “woe is me,” but I wonder sometimes. But I know nothing would be different. I know that if she lived another 20 years, or even more, I would still think that I didn’t have enough time, that there was still more I could have learned from her, and I would have been right. She would never be able to instill in me all of the wisdom that she possessed. When I really think about it, though, I am not sad. She lived a great life, a full life. She worked at the same job for almost 20 years, was making great pay, didn’t really have a lot of opportunity to advance much further, was married to the same man for 30-some-odd years, had four grown, capable children, and there really wasn’t a whole lot left for her. I can’t imagine what more she would have done with her life that she hadn’t done already. She was ready to go and it was her time, and I am fine with that. Perhaps she needed to go, to help me see who she really was, because there are things I still wouldn’t know about her if she was still alive today. I know that she is always with me and will continue to be as long as I keep her in my heart and in my memories. I just hope that she knew how much I loved her even if I never had the courage to say it.

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