If My Mom Was Here Right Now

We’d probably be drinking coffee. Every morning started with coffee for her. Our coffeemaker broke when I was in high school and my dad got into the habit of going to Dunkin’ every morning at 7:00 to get coffee for her. Even after they bought a new one, he continued to go because she loved their coffee that much. 

She’d probably be here at my house. I’m working from home today and she’d probably come over to watch the kiddos for me. She’d planned to stop working once I had kids because she was meant to be a grandmother.

I’d probably offer to make her toast with grape jelly since that’s what she had for breakfast every day. I’d also know that she’d decline, having made it for herself at home to eat while reading the newspaper.

We’d probably talk about the terrible fire at the Notre Dame in Paris, aghast at such a tragedy. It would lead to us talking about how we’ve never really traveled internationally, but we would reminisce about the time I had to get a French dictionary in high school. We were in Media Play looking for one when we heard a woman ask an employee if they had any. The employee said no, so we left and headed across the street to Waldenbooks where we bought the last one. As we were leaving, we passed the woman entering the store, still looking. We felt guilty but victorious.

She’d probably spend a lot of time listening to Bean talk about school. My mom was a preschool teacher, so hearing her granddaughter share stories from the classroom would make her heart happy. It would also make her thankful that she had reached a time in her life where she could focus just on her babies, despite loving all her past students.

I’d probably leave my office a few times more than I should, just to look in on them and chat with her. We might discuss Christian Siriano’s return to Project Runway, given our shared love for the show. Or I might fill her in on a story I’m working on and hoping to wrap in the next few days. I’d explain that I was having trouble getting one person in particular on-board and she’d tell me to get back in my office and make it happen because her daughter was indefatigable.

We’d probably eat lunch outside while the kids run around. My dad would stop over for a quick visit, since his beloved wife + his beloved grandkids + sunshine is likely how he imagines paradise. He’d pull a few errant weeds in our garden, as he does anytime he visits anywhere.

She’d probably put Dude down for a nap after lunch. She’d read him four or five or six books first, because reading was her favorite thing in the world. Reading to a snuggly baby though? That’s just heaven on earth.

I’d probably hang out with Bean for a few minutes while she puts Dude to sleep. Bean would tell me how fun Grandma Terri is and I’d have to agree because it’s true.

We’d probably spend the day doing nothing of particular note or importance—just flowing through the day to the rhythm of breaths in and out. The sending of emails, the kissing of cheeks, the answering of calls, the scrubbing of hands. 

She’d probably say goodbye just before dinner, hugging babies on her way out the door. My husband would’ve cracked a joke at some point because she loved his sense of humor, and he loved that she loved his sense of humor. I’d get a kiss and a “call you later” because she prefers speaking voices to tapping thumbs.

I’d probably not be writing this because I’d be too busy living out this day, rather than imagining it.

Today is still a good day.

The sun is out and the flowers are in bloom. It should be close to 70º before too long. We’ll open the windows. The kids will run in the grass and come in just before dinner, muddy and breathless. They’ll whine that they don’t like what I’ve cooked (even though they ate it without issue last time). They’ll get baths and books and bedtime kisses, and my husband and I will end the evening on the couch with a snack and a Parks & Rec rerun.

That my mom is missing from our day-to-day is no longer a gaping wound. Time has stitched me. 

But there’s still a scar. And just like the physical scars I have, it goes unnoticed until I move a certain way, pulling the skin in a direction it doesn’t want to go. This week is the move that pulls. This week, the last week of her life eight years ago, is tinged with ideas of what I lost when I lost her.

I’m usually a rose-colored glasses, cup-half-full kind of person. I’ll get through this week as I always do: with a bunch of tears and a heap of gratitude for all I have. 

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” — A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh