Three weeks ago today I last saw my mother the way I want to remember her: smiling, hugging, joking, walking, driving.
She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.
One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.
The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.
My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.
She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.
She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.
She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.
I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.
Love ya and miss ya, Ma!
(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)
