Grandma Christine’s warmth
My seven-year-old asked me to see pictures of “Grandma Christine,” my mom. “I can’t remember what she looks like.”
It’s not surprising he doesn’t remember. He was only five months old when she died.
I told him I didn’t have many pictures of her. I explained that this was because she destroyed all our pictures while suffering from a kind of mental illness. I added that the loss of all those photos makes every picture I have of her all the more precious.
I promised to show him those pictures I still have, but a day passed. Another day passed. Yet anther day was apt to pass when he exclaimed an hour or so ago, “Your mom! I still want to see pictures!”
I sat down on the stool in front of my computer. Li’l D joined me there, snuggling up next to me as I loaded my tiny folder of photos labeled “Mom.”
The warmth of Mom flowed from those photos until I got to one longtime readers will recognize: the moment my mom met her first grandchild, and smiled a genuine smile for the first time I’d seen in years.
Li’l D scampered off to play with his new toys as I stared at the photo.
In my blog’s most popular post, “Dear Mom,” I expressed some of the abundant joys and sorrows of being my mom’s daughter. In the two years since I wrote that post, I understand the joys so much more clearly.
I also understand what a privilege it was to be raised by her. I know this might sound strange to someone who’s read about pieces of the poverty, abuse, predation, mental illness, and cancer that entailed, but those were mere fractions of an overall experience bound together by her love, compassion, forgiveness, and hope.
Had I experienced all that hardship without her insistence–and demonstration–there could be better, I would not be where I am today.
I like where I am today. I like how I am facing enormously complicated, harrowing truths while finding ways to effect change and retaining my optimism.
How do I know to do these things?
I learned them from my mom.
So today, as I remember the warmth of my son pressed against my side, asking questions about Grandma Christine, I also remember the warmth of being nestled against my mother.
The warmth itself fades, but the memory of that warmth is unquenchable.
Note: If you’d like to read more on the joys and hardships of being my mom’s daughter, please read the series I compiled–largely for my husband–last year:
- The Before: Our Evil Neighbors
- The During, part 1: This Demon with My Mother’s Face
- The During, part 2: I Miss My Mom
- The During, part 3: Treatment beyond Our Consent
- The During, part 4: Fragments and Shadows
- The End: We Will Carry You with Us