Mother’s Day is this Sunday. The media is full of the blossomed love we have for our primal comfort from birth. For some however, what ever the reason, that primal may have been disrupted, disturbed, or utterly destroyed leaving a creature of human flesh and blood feeling oddly alienated if one’s instinct to gather flowers for the day remain mute.

Her ashes sit in my garage. I never meant for her to rest there for so long. I was supposed to have my own plot of land by now. Instead she remains in a funny cookie jar of a pig flying a corn cob. Memories of her cookie jar stories come flooding back when I see that. I would have put her in the cookie jar she grew up with, the metal lid after the glass one broke. The stories of her successful heist of cookies cause much laughter about how she stole cookies from over the years. Alas like many things that are fragile, it too broke.

Mom also became brittle and shattered. Us kids didn’t know how to catch the pieces and Dad was too into himself to notice or perhaps chose not to. Our house was a dry house, drugs were from the doctor, they kept her alive, and around the bend a lot too.

When she died, at age 61 from a lifetime of ragged health brought on my serious drastic asthma,  I was so relieved. I was horrified I felt relived, I went to confession to pour out my sin as an unworthy daughter, only to be told most gently, “that must mean, she can’t hurt you anymore”.   Months after she died, I finally cried, not out of grief in her passing, but relief I was not some horrible monster. She also died shortly before my youngest was born, I do wish she could have at least held him. That seemed to be one thing I did that please her, give her grandchildren she could hold.

Each birthday, Mothers day I do think of her, wish her well in her peace. Happy she is no longer tormented by her many illnesses. Each year, I find a few more good memories to add to an emotional scrap book of, good days she did have. However, you won’t find me among those wishing her back. Some pains are better left where they belong, gone and quiet. When I get my plot of land, I too will lay there eventually in a scattered pieces ash mixed in with my parents and flower seeds. Hopefully in the following seasons wild flowers will dance in the wind of happiness.

Nancy Louise