Today is one of those days where the urge of missing my mother came very unexpectedly. It’s been a rather blergh day–everything outside is wearing its finest muted browns, greens, and greys–and internally I’ve been feeling a little stressed and restless. I’ve been working from home today, which is definitely a plus, but a lonely one. There’s been a lot to do, so I’ve pretty much been parked in front of the computer nonstop today, plugging along, trying to get to the next deadline…
When all of a sudden, the overwhelming feeling that my mom would be home soon took over–as if I was transported to 15 years ago when she was still working. I was a latchkey kid and so I generally had a golden hour or 2 to myself before mom got home. Depending on my age and the day, that hour leading up to her arrival even brought great dread or joy–usually punctuated by the ever-burning question of what would be for dinner.
I let myself get caught up in that feeling for a moment, the “what if” if it were true, but it proved not only to be painful, but also exceptionally frustrating. Honestly, at this point, I’m just so tired of missing her, so tired of the pointless “what ifs” that run through my mind if I allow myself to think of a reality where she is not sick.
I have to say that in terms of life tragedies, I’ve been luckier than most. Without thinking too hard, I can count so many others who have dealt with far worse pain in their lives. This is not to trivialize my own feelings or experiences, but I recognize the fortune I’ve had to be able to (fairly) easily accept most of the things that have come my way. So I guess because of this, I naïvely keep waiting to finally just accept the loss of who my mother was–that I’ll finally be able to properly move on from those feelings (whatever that means). But I think, no matter what, a part of me is always going to hold out hope that one day, my mother will finally come home to me.