Tag Archives: motherless daughters

After You Died

We cremated you. Without a will, or any written instructions, this was a difficult decision to make. I wasn’t sure of your desires, but I believed my sister, who said she recalled your final wishes were to be fully released from your captor body. So I signed my name on a piece of paper the day after you died. Your funeral would be the next day, as per Jewish custom. Your cremation horrified me, but not because it bucked tradition. I could not bear the image of your body burned to a cinder, your ashes mine alone to scatter. Still, you would have laughed at the funeral director. Instead of mom, he called you mother. Very Norman Bates. Had you been there, we would have giggled until our stomachs ached.

The other night I told my husband I felt like I have lived two lives, the one before you died and the one after. We were both falling asleep, and I can’t remember what he said back to me but I think it was, “You have lived two lives.” He has only known me in my second life. He never knew me in my first life, as a person with a mother. He never knew you. But he has carried the weight of your absence with me for the past thirteen years I have known him. He has never once told me to get over it. He has never told me to be a person other than who I am. We met on your birthday, by the way. You’d been dead two years by then.

Around that time, I took in my first stray. He was a black tomcat, like the one you used to have before I was born. He appeared near my apartment in the Louisiana delta. At first, I didn’t want him. But my sister, who was visiting, forced me to adopt the cat. She put her hands on her hips the way she did when we were kids and played “Business Women.” (You should remember she was always the boss and I was always the employee.) She convinced me I could take care of something else again, that I could stand to be needed. So I adopted him that very afternoon. He opened the heaviest door I shuttered after you died, the one marked LOVE.

It felt wrong at first, to love beyond you. But the moment I started, I couldn’t stop. I have four rescues now. No child. For a long time, I was afraid to become a mother, afraid to lose a child the same way I lost you. I was well past 30 when I realized losing you taught me I could bear anything. Losing you taught me not to withhold love. Fingers crossed, I’ll give you a grandchild in the next year or two. Maybe twins :-).

By the way, you are already a grandmother. I know: You look like you could be my sister! But your other daughter already has two sons and a daughter. The eldest looks exactly like you. He makes all your most hilarious facial expressions. Like you, he loves music, loves to sing. He’s particularly fond of The Beach Boys & Billy Joel. His sister has a thing for Taylor Swift. You should hear her sing “Firework.” It’s really something. The youngest isn’t talking yet, but he has the chubbiest thighs we’ve ever seen. If you ever had the chance to squeeze them, you’d never let go.

When I awoke this morning, I remembered the morning you died. I was the same age as many of my students are now. No wrinkles then. No grey hair. At first, I mourned the big things, such as how you would not be at my college graduation –– on Mother’s Day that year. Ugh. But I felt your absence in the small things, how there was no one to tell me to be home by 10 p.m. or to complain that I’d used all the hot water AGAIN. I missed you most in the mornings, that time when we used to sip coffee and read the newspaper. I still miss you in the mornings. This is when I resurrect write about you.

Today is an anniversary, but not the kind that requires flowers or chocolate. Today you are fifteen years dead. My sister will likely light a candle for you, say Kaddish. She has been so good about honoring you on the terms of your faith. I will go to my Spin class, grade papers, prep lessons, steal an ordinary day from the impossible shadow of your absence.

After you died, I didn’t think I could go on. I didn’t want to go on. But here I am, missing you as much as I did on my first day without you. Only now, I can balance the unbearable loss of you on my head, walk beneath it without sinking.

Grief Observed: Lessons from Binge-Watching “Six Feet Under”

Carl and I started watching Six Feet Under this summer. This is my first time watching. When the pilot aired in 2001, I knew my mother’s death was inevitable, but neither of us could face that truth. We pretended she’d recover, that kidney failure in a type-one diabetic was just a temporary thing. I, along with much of the nation, had also watched the twin towers collapse on live television. Death hung over everything that year, but I thought Six Feet was weird and morbid. I wanted nothing to do with it.

Carl, who lived across the country from me, was starting seminary. He loved the show, all its rituals and questions about life and death and truth. He watched weekly with his friends. At the time, we didn’t know each other. But back in 2001, one of my good friends was a Six Feet fan, and I’d hear about the show’s weekly episodes from her. She loved Six Feet because her father worked as an undertaker in central Pennsylvania. Funerals were their family’s business, and it had been that way for generations. When my mother died in April 2002, this friend was studying abroad. But that didn’t stop her from reaching out.

The day she learned of my mother’s death, she sent me yellow roses and a card. In the subsequent weeks, she left me thoughtful voicemails. She responded to my e-mails without missing a beat. Never once did she attempt to comfort me with irritating platitudes or vague offers of prayer. She understood there was no reason why my mother had to suffer, or why I had to face the rest of my life without a mother to guide me.

What I needed was to get through each moment, each day. Through it all, this friend stood by me. We didn’t know the term holding space back then, but that is what she did for me. She held space for my grief, and she didn’t flee, like many others did. I don’t blame them. Grief is terrifying, especially to twenty-one year-olds, many of whom have never even lost a pet. My mother’s death, and my own grief, reminded others of what they stood to lose, and many could not bear to look.

One of the reasons why I think Carl and I are drawn to Six Feet now– we binge-watched half of season four yesterday –– is because death feels like our family business, too. We both lost parents young. As adolescents and young adults, we saw our parents lose control of their bodies and hope. We stood at their funerals. We received diplomas and awards without them watching. Any child we have will grow up never knowing two essential grandparents. We will mourn our parents again and again. There is no finish line for grief.

Had I watched Six Feet back in 2001, I’d know how grief “comes and goes,” as Nate says in season four. I’d know grief feels more like an ocean than a highway. I’d know how unexpressed grief leads to greater pain, and that numbing through sex or drugs or alcohol does not lessen our suffering, but only ushers in greater despair. I’d know death stops for no one, but it is also not contagious.

I hope I’d understand that, at 21, I could not bring my mother’s body back, no matter how long and deeply I mourned. But I could return to her essence through my work as a writer and teacher and friend. Now I feel my mother’s spirit –– not her ghost, but the core of who she was –– when I hold space for others. When I make room for another person’s grief, I make room for my mother. In this way, I honor her death and her life. Rather than confining her to a grave or a memory, I make her expansive, like my own heart, which is one half hers, still beating, still alive, in the world.

 

 

Teach Me To Sit Still

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
 

T.S. Eliot, “Ash Wednesday”

When I sat za-zen with three Buddhists in a Baptist church eleven years ago, I had no idea what would happen. I’d only known one Buddhist previously, a creative writing professor who supervised an independent study with me in college. I once heard another student discussing him. She’d bristled at the word Buddhist, whispering it the way people sometimes whisper atheist or cancer. Still, Buddhism allured me. That former professor was kind and generous and calm. When I sat in his office, I felt calm and worthy of another person’s attention. He offered me something I had not received since my mother’s death. Presence.

Still, my first sit didn’t happen for three more years, when I was 24, and mired in grief, and grasping for a life that was no more, the life when I had a mother. That night I sat, eyes half-closed, and focused on my breath. In. Out. Nose. Mouth. I noticed my heart tightening, my arms tingling, my elbow itching with ferocious force. But I held my posture for 25 minutes –– legs folded in front of me, palms pressed lightly on my thighs, neck straight. Then a bell chimed, and I stood and walked for five minutes in a circle with the only three Buddhists I knew between Jackson, Mississippi and Shreveport, Louisiana.

We walked slowly. S-l-o-w-e-r than I’ve ever walked, our feet hitting the floor in perfect slow-motion time with one another. And then the bell chimed once more, its vibrations rippling into tiny and tinier pings until we sat again. Another 25 minutes of breathing and feeling and noticing our bodies and breath. Car doors slammed. Dogs yelped. Tim McGraw songs played from rolled down windows. But I just inhaled, exhaled. I contemplated the itch on my elbow, which turned into something else. Not an itch at all, just nerves and skin and, finally, softness. When the final bell rang, I felt like five minutes had elapsed, not another 25. I pressed my hands to my heart and bowed. Had I really just sat in silence for nearly an hour? This person who sat still that night, this person who had breathed stillness into every inch of herself, was not a self I knew.

The self I knew always surrounded herself with sound. She delighted in the noises of the world and the noises of her thoughts. She had so many noisy thoughts. Why did her mother die? How would she go on? When would she feel better? At night, in her apartment, she listened to records and struggled to sleep. When the sun came up, she listened to NPR, letting the voices of Steve Inskeep and Renee Montagne soothe her jagged insomniac nerves. These noises reminded her that she also lived in a world full of people, connected her to something larger and broader. On the occasions that she did fall asleep, she dreamed of her mother, but awakened screaming, just as she remembered her mother was dead. This was the me I knew. This was the me I had been for the past three years. I never imagined I could be different. I never tried to be different.

But when I returned to my apartment after my first za-zen sit, a tiny revolution began. That night, I did not turn on my record player. I pulled on my nightgown and crashed into my bed. My black tomcat curled into my hip, and I slept hard beneath my quilt. In the morning, I did not turn on NPR while I dressed. I did not crave any sound. I felt lighter, more still. One thought distilled as I drove to work, and that was this: I felt like I had just returned from a one-week vacation to the beach. Grief contracted me, shrank my world, made me fearful and small. But meditation opened me to something else, something different, an experience where joy and hope ran beside pain.

I meditate now on my own and with others. I’ve explored different styles of Buddhist meditation practice, and ultimately gravitated into vipassana, or insight meditation. In the past ten years, I’ve read Pema Chodron and Thich Nhat Hanh and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I’ve also read Julian of Norwich and St. Catherine of Siena and St. Teresa of Avila. I’ve attended a day-long vipassana retreat and two multi-day retreats in Benedictine communities, but I never attended a weeklong retreat in a Buddhist community until this summer.

A few days ago, I returned from a seven-day Buddhist Geeks meditation retreat, an experience whose magnitude I’m still unpacking, along with a lot of dirty laundry and new dharma books I want to read. I went on retreat because my husband encouraged me, just as he encouraged me to get serious about meditation years ago, when I was still awakening to the sound of my own screams, and waking him up, too. (As they say in the South where we met, Bless his heart.) Truthfully, I would not have attended a retreat of this length without another person encouraging me to do so. I think this is because change and leaving my comfort zone are still excruciating for me. Really, they are the hardest things in my life. I resist them because they plunge me back to uncertainty, back to my first night without my mother, back to the end of my life as I once knew it.

I meditate now because I want to change how I relate to fear. Meditation sometimes escalates my anxiety and insomnia because I am relating deeply to emotions I have buried. Meditation has not made me zen in the way this word is commonly understood. I am still nervous and loud and seem like I drink a boatload of espresso when, in fact, I drink no coffee at all.

I still missed my mother when I came home. I stood in my dining room and watched morning light spill onto my record player, and I wanted to call her and tell her that the daughter who spent an entire adolescence on the telephone had just spent 80 percent of the past seven days in silence. I imagined how we both would have laughed until tears came out of our eyes. And tears did come out of my eyes then, but I welcomed my sorrow, this shadow side of love. I scooped my orange tomcat into my arms and kissed his soft head, then made myself a cup of tea.

I gave myself the gift another person had given me years and years ago, when I thought I could not live without my mother, when I did not want to live without her. I gave myself presence, pure and simple and elusive and profound. I returned to myself, my deepest unknowable evolving self. I sat still, caring and not caring, wanting and not wanting. Just there, in the still morning, with the sun coming up, where I once sat, many selves ago, beside my mother, who sipped her own tea and whispered how grateful she was that I was her daughter, how much she loved me, how lucky we were to be right there together, to be alive at the same time.

 

 

 

Paul Simon & the Mother-Child Reunion

At 12, I listened to The Concert in Central Park with my mother, cassette wheels spinning in rhythm to snow falling outside. We sang all winter: “Mrs. Robinson,” “America,” “Homeward Bound,” and “The Boxer’s” lie-la-lie chorus. She could never carry a tune, but sang because she loved Simon & Garfunkel, and I loved them because she did. I didn’t know The Concert in Central Park happened the year I was born or that Simon & Garfunkel were no longer a duo. I didn’t understand most of the playlist, but I loved the songs’ mama-pajama beat and their mystery.

Years later, before she died, my mother and I fought about music. I was 20 and home for a weekend and listening to a mix CD one of my roommates made. Who Stopped the Rain came on and my mother said, “That’s my music. I can’t believe you’re listening to my music.” She was remarking on how strange and beautiful it can be when children adopt the best interests of their parents, but I didn’t want to be likened to her. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be my own person, not a copy of my mother, not her life repeated, and I didn’t understand how she was really complimenting me.

I was angry in a way I’d never been before or since. I knew she was dying —I’d made her death real by writing it down in my journal. By giving what was happening to us a name, I sanctified her death with power. No one ever needed to say the word death because I already knew she might not see me graduate college. I already knew she would definitely not see me marry. I already knew she would never know a grandchild. She was still alive, wouldn’t be dead for another year, but I was grieving the mother who was going to die. My grief came out in anger. It came out in fights with her about inane things like her music and my music. It came out in me lying: The cigarettes weren’t mine. The beer bottle caps in the back of my car belonged to someone else. It came out in the only socially acceptable culturally conditioned way I knew, as one woman turning against another.

The summer before, we’d had Dylan tickets, but she was too sick to go. So I went without her, already resenting the many more places I’d have to go without her, a life full of her absence and my presence. I was enraged because she was leaving me, and enraged because I wanted her to leave, which was a thousand times worse than her leaving. To this day, I wish I’d just smiled and sung along with her to CCR, the way we used to when I was a tween, the way we sang to Simon & Garfunkel.

Last week, I saw Paul Simon at Wolf Trap. I danced the whole time with my husband, a man my mother never knew, a man who loves Paul Simon and Dylan, and is my husband nonetheless. The concert overflowed with energy and summer abandon. People danced all over the lawn. We danced from the first song, The Boy in the Bubble, to the last one, The Sound of Silence. We danced in the rain, our umbrellas bobbing to the beat. We danced as the sky blazed red and purple and lightning sizzled beyond the trees.

No question, I thought about my mother. How could I not? I love Paul Simon because his songs entwine life with death, joy with loss, and make plain how each amplifies the other. I know I live with more vigor and vivaciousness because my mother died, because I know how starkly short a life can be. The Wolf Trap performance was the last leg of Paul Simon’s 2016 Tour, a tour that could be his last. I think he gave it everything he had. There was a moment when I looked at the stage, directly into his line of vision, and felt as if his exuberance flowed into the crowd and our exuberance flowed back onto the stage, uplifted him, just as he uplifted us.

I knew I’d have seen this concert with my mother, had she lived. I know that last clause holds all my life’s desires in three words. Had she lived. My mother is dead —her ashes, scattered in the Chesapeake Bay, swam away from me long ago. She was not at my wedding. She does not know her grandchildren. But she is also alive in the same way Paul Simon’s music will be alive long after his last concert.

Her exuberance lives in the music I love, the music we sang and fought about. Her love for me lives in the choices I make each day to be honest and to steer clear of destruction. I do not believe in clear categories of afterlife, but I do believe I am the full sum of my mother’s life. I am everything that eclipses her death. My life, the life I live without her, unfolds in rhythm to all she showed me, and her hope runs beside me, as constant as a heartbeat, as steady as breath.

Watching Hillary Without My Mother

My mother introduced me to Hillary Clinton one afternoon as she watched the news and I read The Hobbit and the Clintons flashed onto our television’s small screen.

“She uses her last name,” my mother said, pointing to the new first family. “Rodham.” Each syllable spread out on her tongue for emphasis: Rod-ham

This was a big deal, and I glanced away from my book, to the television screen, to the woman with big eyes and blonde hair and a gigantic grin. My mother’s gaze never moved from Hillary.

My mother used her own name too, LaSov, after her divorce. Until Hillary Rodham Clinton, I knew no other woman who’d made this seemingly bold move. In all honesty, I knew few women like my mother. She worked when my friends’ mothers stayed home. She wore pantsuits. She never owned a single apron. By first grade, I knew the words sexist and feminist. My mother taught them to me. She used the former to describe a male teacher who insisted girls wear skirts to school concerts.

When Hillary talked about having more important work than baking cookies, my mother applauded. (Our cookies came from a bakery or Pillsbury dough roll.) Still, I barely understood the controversies swirling around this new first lady in 1992, as she shirked gendered assumptions without apology, the same way my mother was teaching me to do. To us, Hillary stood for equality and promise, one dream of second wave feminism coming true. She stood for an America where women could be wives and mothers and leaders, the way men had melded career ambition and family for generations. Hillary blew right past the binaries, all the false dichotomies.

To my mother, Hillary also stood for an America where more could be possible for me, her daughter growing up at a time blessedly different from the pre-Civil Rights era when she came of age. Unlike my mother, who believed she had to be married by twenty-two, and choose between two careers –– teaching or nursing –– I could be anything. Do anything. Marry or not marry.  Just look at Hillary Rodham Clinton, my mother said.

She made sure I listened to Hillary’s speeches and read articles about her trips to China and Africa. We discussed them at the dinner table and between school and basketball practice. The year Hillary became first lady was the same year I declared myself a feminist, like my mother, and plastered my bedroom door with National Organization for Women stickers.

I voted for the first time at age 18 in New York State. No question: I voted for Hillary, then called my mother to tell her the news. We were both ecstatic.

Had my mother lived, I’d have driven 50 miles to her house this week to watch Hillary’s victory speech. We would have ordered Chinese takeout and watched Hillary command that Brooklyn stage again and again. We would have laughed together as the glass ceiling shattered into eighteen million pieces, so much light and possibility now dawning on our country.

I know my mother would have paused the speech somewhere around minute fourteen and said, Do you see? She remembers to thank her mother. We would have listened, breathless, to Hillary’s description of her “biggest rock,” her mother, born the same day Congress voted on the nineteenth amendment. Goosebumps would have risen up on both our arms, as Hillary smiled and the crowd cheered.

But my mother is dead. And I’ve had to learn to mark milestones without her. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I’d give anything to have her back, to be able to drive to her house this week and watch Hillary together.

In the end, I watched Hillary’s speech with one of my dogs curled against my lap and a cat perched beside my arm. I fought tears when I heard her call her mother her “greatest influence,” and listened to her tie her vast achievements to her mother’s struggles. My tears let loose when Chelsea took the stage to be the first person to hug her mother.

Rarely do I see mothers or daughters or mothers and daughters front and center in national politics. This moment feels rare and precious, historic and without comparison. Rarely do I hear world leaders applauding their mother’s influences or discussing their mothers at all. But this is a truth I cling to and a truth that saves me, the truth Hillary voiced at the heart of her speech, the truth that a mother’s legacy can survive death to live on in her child, the truth that a mother’s influence changes the world.

 

 

Love & Immortality

My mother dreamed of climbing Mount St. Helens. She’d never been to Washington State, but once glimpsed the Wasatch Range from a Salt Lake City hotel room.

“They’re capped in snow, like in the movies!” She told me on the phone one morning, before leaving to run in the U.S. Transplant Olympics. Breathy and energetic, her voice sounded like that of a teenager.

At 43, my mother was thriving after an experimental kidney and pancreas transplant saved her life two years prior. Once barely able to walk around the block, she participated in two U.S. Transplant Olympics held in Salt Lake City, Utah and Columbus, Ohio. Her transplant freed her to dream of all the possibilities restored health could hold.

She was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes in 1966, before the widespread use of insulin pumps and blood-glucose meters. Although she once aspired to be a flight attendant and travel the world, my mother relinquished those ambitions when her insulin reactions became unpredictable. She chose a career in nursing and worked in healthcare until disabling organ failure forced her to leave her job.

After she left the workforce, I came home from school to find my mother watching Days of Our Lives or Another World, a Diet Coke in her hand, and a Dean Koontz novel spread out on our coffee table. At 10, 11, and 12, I didn’t understand my mother’s malaise. I hated her sweat suits and pallor. I longed to see her dust her eyes in coppery powder and sweep pink gloss across her lips.

I could not know then that my mother’s illness forced me to face my own mortality. The failure of her body, by extension, represented the inevitable demise of my own. I couldn’t understand how terrified she must have been to come so close to death in her thirties, not far from the age I am now.

Nor could I know the grief she felt, as she watched friends ascend their own careers and have enough energy to meet the daily demands of mothering. While her peers attended meetings and baked PTA cupcakes, my mother languished in our living room, caught in the snare of daytime TV.

Her organ transplant changed all that by offering an unexpected midlife reprieve. There were no limits to what she could do, and she wanted to do it all: travel, climb mountains, see her daughters graduate college, become a grandmother. Even when her transplanted organs failed midway through my junior year of college, my mother still clung to her dreams. She ordered luggage for far-off future trips and bought Harry Potter books for a hypothetical grandchild. Done with soap operas, she watched outdoor adventure television.

Maybe her behaviors represented denial, rather than hope. As my mother progressed on dialysis, death began to look like the most merciful path. But she had the imagination to dream of better days in the midst of her worst ones, and she taught me to do the same.

Six weeks after her death, I found myself on a plane to Glasgow, Scotland, traveling to work at a newspaper I’d never visited and live with a person I’d never met, in a city I’d never set foot in. I should have felt terrified, but I’d already experienced the worst thing that had ever happened to me. What could be worse than losing my mother? I embarked on the kind of adventures she’d always dreamed of having.

For a long time, I followed this path of living a mix of her dreams and mine, of doing what my mother could not do because she died, and I lived. I fantasized about climbing mountains that once beckoned her –– Mt. St. Helens and Everest. I even took her last name. I told myself I was honoring her legacy, and that is true. But I was also bargaining, offering up my life for hers, as if such a trade could resurrect her.

I don’t know when I accepted my mother’s death as final. I know acceptance came quietly, after years of reckoning.

People like to tell me my mother is proud of me, or that she’s watching over me. I do not accept these sentiments, but I also do not begrudge them. It is true that my mother is dead. It is also true that the best parts of her live on through me.

This time of year, when spring changes to summer, I remember how I found her sunbathing in our backyard one morning. She wore her black bathing suit. Her skin smelled of baby oil and coconut. A book rested against her chest.

What are you doing? I wanted to know. At six, I was full of questions. Why is the sky blue? Where does God live? Does death hurt? My mother pulled me to her chest, let me burrow into her shoulder, and began to read a story about a girl who rescued a pig.

I took the book inside our house and read the whole thing without stopping. I didn’t cry when Charlotte died after spinning the sack that held her eggs, or after her babies crawled out of the sack and into a world without their mother.

I understood Charlotte had died, but she wasn’t gone. She was the oldest story her children remembered, their first experience of sacrifice and kindness, a foundational current moving through their lives.

I no longer believe in sky gods or resurrection or clear categories of afterlife. I do believe in the force that was my mother, the power of her kindness and her dreams, her immortal love.

No Last Goodbye

My mother believed in heaven, not hell. I learned this a few weeks before she died, when I drove her to a dialysis appointment. We knew the end was near, but we both pretended she might live. I felt time closing in on us. There was so much I needed to know. I had no idea where to begin. In the car I blurted out, “Are you afraid to die?”

No. She told me.

As a Jewish woman who came of age in the 1960s, my mother never had a Bat Mitzvah. She could not read Hebrew. She had no clear concept of the afterlife. But she believed hell had been her life on earth. And that is what she said as I drove and cried and watched spring rain drench the windshield of her minivan, a car I’d soon inherit.

She died six weeks after my twenty-first birthday. That morning, my best friend drove me from my D.C. apartment to the house where my mother had lived outside Baltimore. We were both numb with grief, barely able to speak or listen to music. When I saw my mother’s minivan parked outside, I expected to see her appear at the front door, as she did whenever I came home. The door stayed closed, and nausea climbed in my stomach. I could not imagine ever wanting to sleep or eat again. Each step I took felt like a mile.

Truly, I lived on another planet, a world familiar on its surface, but utterly strange at the core. I reread Alice in Wonderland, desperate to find a door leading out of my rabbit hole and back to my mother. I looked for her in other places, too: her red comb that still held strands of her red-brown hair; her pillow that still smelled of her Dove soap; my dreams, where she led me to a house in the middle of a woods, then disappeared.

Jewish custom forbids open caskets, but I sat beside my mother’s coffin the night before her funeral. My grandmother asked that the coffin lid be opened, so that my sister and I could say goodbye to our mother. I kissed her face and forehead,  flinching momentarily at their rock-hard firmness. I wanted her to awaken the way princesses did in fairytales, even though I was far too old to believe in magic. I could not believe she was dead. Gone. Forever.

After the funeral, I followed her coffin to the parking lot, then crawled into the hearse. I could not let her go. My grief was raw and pathological, a torment I would not wish on the worst person I knew. A good friend led me away.

My mother died one month before Mother’s Day, which that year occurred two days after her birthday. I cannot remember how I marked either day, nor do I want to.

There are now 14 years between my mother’s death and me. But I always think of her on Mother’s Day. How can I not? Other than my birthday, Mother’s Day is the holiday that most connects me to her, and reminds me of my life on a faraway planet, of the time when I once had a mother, when I once was someone’s daughter.

I remember setting my alarm and waking up before sunrise to make her breakfasts of scrambled eggs and peanut butter toast. My sister and I gave her cards and handmade friendship bracelets, which she’d tie around her ankles. She’d scrunch her whole face into a smile and exclaim, “I’m the luckiest mother in the whole wide world,” before drawing us to her chest in a tight, all consuming hug, the kind of hug we thought would go on forever. She was the luckiest mother in the world, and we were the luckiest girls.

You would think I’d hate Mother’s Day, but the holiday doesn’t rankle me in the ways one might expect. I don’t wake up wild with grief. I might cry, but that’s because Mother’s Day falls on the most high stress time of my working life. It’s a frenzied end-of-semester day for me, a day of grading and dog-walking and rushing to get lunches packed and dinner on the table. This year, I’m able to squeeze in brunch with my sister, and I’m unfathomably grateful for time with her, given her own demands of a full-time career and full-time mothering.

Like my friends who still have their mothers, I’m irritated by the gender stereotypes Mother’s Day embodies, the pinkwashed sentimentality that implies women are delicate and soft and devoted to caretaking. Mother’s Day denies our complexity and renders women like me invisible, since I have neither a mother nor a child.

And yet, I love Mother’s Day, because I loved my mother.

Her laugh and smile and exuberance come back to me on this day, remind me of how important it used to be that I wake up early and thank her, make her feel appreciated and loved. I still feel her presence when I am kind and appreciative, when I go out of my way to help a person who is struggling, when I sit with a person who is staring down a staggering loss.

I will never get to tell my mother how much she meant to me. She will never get to see her legacy live on in me. She will never know her grandchildren, or see the homes her daughters have made, or the flowers I plant in my garden to remember her.

This is how I survive beyond my mother, and how I choose to celebrate Mother’s Day. Even though she cannot see or hear me, even though she exists now only in my memories and choices, I say, “Thank you,” as if she is sitting right here beside me, waiting to pull me to her chest, and remind me how purely I have been loved.

Thank youThank you.  Thank you.