When your heart is too full to express itself, words often don’t seem adequate. I’ve been in that place many times, more often when happy than sad. Pure joy is inexplicable to me but sorrows beg for expression as a means of purging.
When I feel pain the words flow as tears from my heart. And sometimes the situation falls in between expression and emptiness.
Today is my Mama’s birthday. She would have been 86. Or 87. Depending on whether you could trust her birth certificate or her mother. There was much debate over this issue in the family because one date left her a year older than my Dad which, apparently, was not what she wanted. It was funny from the outside looking in. He would have been 86 this coming August so no matter how you date it, she was still older. ❤️
To say I loved my mother was an understatement. She passed away at the young age of 45, leaving me feeling lost and fearful. She had always been my touchstone for my sense of who I was. As long as Mama was there to smile, to talk to and put her hand on my head, I knew I would be alright. Then she was gone.
She was ill for a long time but we always prayed she would be well. She passed exactly two weeks before my oldest son was born. My advisor, confidante and comforter was no longer there. The thing that kept me going was being a mother myself. I wanted to be for them what I loved so much about my own mother and family. Or I tried. I like to think I made enhancements to what I considered a lovely childhood. Up until my teen years when she became ill.
If anyone ever questions a mother’s role as a lead in the family unit I will tell them that, while both parents are essential to a child’s well-being, it is the mother who more often than not holds it all together. She all too often moves quietly through her overwhelming responsibilities, smiling for the sake of everyone even when she feels like crying. She loves unconditionally, gives freely and seldom complains. She is there for family, friends and her husband, often to her own detriment.