We were not a demonstrative family. I have no memories of kissing, or
hugging, not even a simple “I love you.” But we didn’t need to express it –
our very life was expression of love, centered around family. My childhood
was in the “big depression” days. Money was scarce, times hard. But we
never were hungry, never cold. We were happy. We moved often, so never
had the same friends for long. I have some good memories, had some good
times. The time of this story was my eleventh year. We had an annual class
picnic. For a couple of years my Mother had made cookies as my
contribution. This year, she was sick and had me buy them. The nun was so
upset because she expected my Mother’s delicious homemade treats. I went
off alone, hid behind a tree and cried my heart out. I didn’t really
understand why I was so hurt. Perhaps some inner feeling, I was too young
to know. Several days later, my Mother was taken to the hospital. She went
into a coma, two weeks later, she died. I had a very hard time accepting
this. I couldn’t talk about it because I couldn’t see any connection of my
feelings with my loss. I guess I withdrew into my own little shell. I became
very sarcastic, cried easily. Time heals most hurts and this was no
exception. I grew into a typical young adult with a normal life.
My last and most vivid recollection of Mother was about twelve years
later. I was married with two sons, one eighteen months, the other two
months. One night I was awakened from a sound sleep. I heard someone
calling “Patsy, Patsy”. It frightened me because my Mother was the only
one who called me that. I got up, went to the boys’ room. The oldest was
all right, but the baby was tightly caught up in his blankets. He was okay
but, if I had not moved the blanket from his head, I don’t think he could
have made it through the night.
It is so reassuring to me to know that even though I can’t see her, my
Mother still watches over me. And, she has taken some of the sting from
death.
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