Happy Mother’s Day!
You died when I was only 3, and I hate that I have absolutely no memory of you.
This photo is one of the very few I have of you, and the only one of us together.
Every Mother’s Day, I have this giant hole in my heart because I don’t remember you. I hope that doesn’t make me a horrible son.
Why was it that when I was growing up, I was told to call my stepmother “Mom”, and you were always referred to as “Louise”?
Why in the world would a son be raised to call his Mother by her given name? There is something painfully wrong with that, and I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to correct that situation.
You are Mom, and always will be.
Even if I can’t remember you.
I’ve really tried to find just a single memory up there in the muddled mess that is my mind. Maybe one of the reasons I write so much is to clear out stories to make space in hopes of unearthing a memory of you.
No luck so far, but I’m never going to stop trying.
I finally applied for my passport a couple of weeks ago, and when I took out my birth certificate, I noticed that your name was listed incorrectly.
The official record lists your middle name as your first and vice versa. The woman at the passport office questioned me on this, and I got snippy with her. I insisted that I knew my own Mother’s name.
But do I?
I have no memory of you.
I’m jealous of all my friends who post photos with their Moms on Mother’s Day. I wish I had a mountain of pics from which to choose, and an even larger pile of memories to delve into for a witty status update.
I have this photo, but no memories.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to have kiddos of my own. It’s something I really want, and I promise that my little ones will know about their Grandma.
I’m sorry I never got a chance to buy you a Mother’s Day present, or surprise you with breakfast in bed on your special day.
Just because I don’t remember you, please don’t take that to mean you aren’t always on my mind….especially on Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!