To Mom.
Dear mom,
I tried to make it home tonight before you left, but you were already gone when I arrived. There are so many things I was hoping to tell you before you set out on your journey, so I thought I would sit down and write you a letter before they escaped my ever-so-forgetful mind.
There are few constants in life, and we all-too-often overlook those that under-gird us – the ones that support us through thick and thin; the ones that keep us grounded; the ones that never forsake, never abandon us – even we we screw up mightily.
You have been such a constant.
I don’t remember much, as I’m sure you know. (“Your middle name is ‘I Forgot!’,” you would always say.) But I do remember you. I remember the long hours you worked when we (me and my two sisters) were young. The hours you worked so that we could have a better life. The hours you worked so that we could have new shoes, Legos, three-wheelers (even though that probably made you nervous,) private school, and Mexican on the weekends. I remember the time you gave, volunteering in the RAs, GAs, and anything else that would help nurture, teach, and grow your children. I remember the summer vacations (camping – always camping,) where you would help dad pack, cram, tow, and pop-up so that we could have some time away as a family – even if we didn’t have a ton of money. I remember Saturday mornings, when we were asked (i.e. forced) to clean the house before we could watch cartoons (“You can’t vacuum without the overhead lights on!,” you would always say, after I did exactly that…) I remember all of those rainy days that you walked with me on my paper route, so I wouldn’t have to do it alone. I remember chicken-fried steak, chicken-gizzard casserole, purple-hull peas, homemade spaghetti (“Not from a jar!,” you’d always say,) pot roast on Sundays, and the best fried chicken anyone ever ate, cooked in a rickety electric skillet on top of the washing machine, because there was no other counter space. I remember chocolate pie on my birthday, because you knew that’s what I loved. I remember my 12th birthday, when the snow was so deep that you couldn’t drive to get me a birthday present, so you walked through the snow to TG&Y and bought me my favorite candy bar (a Twix™, no less.) I remember the time that you knew – somehow – that I wasn’t really at the Mall of Memphis, but that I had walked from the mall to some girl’s house to try and discover what ‘getting lucky’ was all about. I remember that you called her house (how the heck did you figure that out?) I remember that you sent my soon-to-be brother-in-law to pick me up. I remember that I really didn’t get in that much trouble that day. I remember church. Every Sunday. Every Wednesday. Because you were determined that your kids grew up with the Truth in their hearts. Not the truth of church, or religion, but the Truth that outlasts all of us – all of our stuff, all of our arguments, all of our sickness, all of everything.
I also remember growing older, getting weirder, and always striving to ‘be different.’ You never told me to pipe down, cut my hair, and get a job. You always told me to follow my dreams. I remember every single show at Club 616 in Memphis – looking up into the balcony, and you were there. Every weekend, no matter how late. I remember the $1,000 you ‘loaned’ me when I bought my first real, slightly-used car. And how you never let me pay you back. I remember when you graduated from college, a year after me, and how incredibly proud of you that I was, and how incredibly happy you were to have finally made it. I remember my first house, and how you gave up your real estate commission so that I could finally own a home of my own. I remember the day I had to move back home, and the open arms that welcomed me back, even through the pain and tears.
I remember my 2nd house, and how you told me over and over again not to buy that house with wooden siding (three years and a million hours-on-a-ladder later, you were right.) I remember the first sermon I preached, and how incredibly proud you were. I remember how much you loved to walk on the beach, for hours on end. I remember the crazy notes and cards you would send me, with the squiggly handwriting that would run around the edges. I remember how heartbroken you were when we had our first miscarriage. I remember how ecstatic you were when you learned we were pregnant for the second time. I remember the joy in your eyes, the smile on your face, when you held your baby grandson for the first time.
I remember all of those things, and so, so much more. But I remember most what you always said to me. No matter how bad I had been, no matter what I had done. No matter the circumstance. Even when you may not have felt like saying it. Even when you were tired, sick, and ready to give up. I remember these words:
“Always remember baby – no one will ever love you like your momma does.”
I remember, mom. Thanks for loving me through thick, thin, rough, and tumble. Thanks for loving me through all of my bad decisions. Thanks for loving me even when I ignored you, didn’t call you back, and went months without visiting. Thanks for loving my short hair, my long hair, my no hair, and my gray hair. Thanks for never giving up on me – even when most everyone else did. Thanks for truly being a mom, in every sense of the word. There will never be another mom like you – never before, and never after. Thanks for being my rock, my anchor, my number-one fan.
And you’re right, mom (weren’t you always?) No one will ever love me like my momma does.
Enjoy the journey, mom, and save some hugs and mom-sloppy kisses for me. I love you, and I’ll see you again someday.
Your son,
–
B.
