Without My Mother

Without my mother.

There will be no one to truly worry about me or wonder if I’ve gotten home safely or ask if the kids should really have a bunk bed.

There will be no one to pass me good books or try to tell me the ending of movies or call me on the phone during The Academy Awards to critique all the dresses.

There will be no one to sort through the kids’ toys or go through my closets or help me clean my garage.

There will be no one to pat cute, little butts or worry about non-life-threatening, childhood illnesses or be amazed when she’s told something “new.”

There will be no more well-orchestrated moves from one house to another because she won’t be there to organize boxes, arrange furniture, and unpack my kitchen.

There will be no one to come over and watch the kids when I have the stomach flu because everyone else will be afraid to catch it.

There will be no more apple slices at Thanksgiving or Lays potato chips on the couch or candy apples in Ashland.

There will be no more yelling at the television during football games or teaching my kids to golf or having tea parties in the sunroom.

There will be no more outrageous gifts emerging from bags after cruises or tours of countries or for no particular reason at all.

There will be no one to rescue a last minute dinner by showing up with everything.

There will be no one who can always make everything look neat and folded and wiped off.

There will be no one who will bring the whole family together, just because that’s what we’re doing.

There will be no one to call for 30 seconds when I have a quick question or call for an hour when I don’t.

There will be no one who has known me since the moment I was born.

Without my mother.