Butterflies and Snowflakes {{a Remembrance}}

standard December 16, 2014 Leave a response

Type type type. Delete. Type type type. Delete.

Seems that’s all I’m doing today – trying to put my thoughts down on paper (paperless internet?), but failing miserably. Two blog posts are sitting on my desktop in draft mode, but I think I’m going to give up on them.

Life has been busy lately, too busy for me to sit down and reflect on the past and the future. So, curled up on the couch in my fox/kitty pajamas, I’m going to take the time. The dishes can wait, the dust bunnies can pile up, the laundry can stay wrinkled.

Today is the sixth anniversary of my mother’s death. People constantly tell me “time heals all wounds,” but this wound doesn’t seem to be closing.

Looking through old photographs, wondering who my mom was before she became a mother. Her 3rd grade report card says she was “Patricia gets along well with others, she is a very happy child. She is cooperative and considerate of others.” In the 11th grade, she excelled at shorthand, but did poorly in HomeEc. and Off.Pr. (no idea). She was absent for 14 days in the 8th grade, was never late, but 9 days late in the 11th grade.

Growing up, we think our parents are perfect, that they can do no wrong. When we become teenagers, they can do nothing right and we wonder how they can even get dressed in the morning. In adulthood, we start understanding some of their decisions and understanding their love for us.

I have no profound stories to share about my mom, nothing earthshaking or momentous. All I have are a few embarrassing stories, memories (both good and bad) and myself.

She’s left me with an appreciation of a clean house, an irrational hatred of beds with hospital corners, a lifelong love of reading, hazel eyes (not gray, Grandma!), a profound disgust of dirty baseboards, knowing when white lies are acceptable, frugality, the inability to express my emotions properly, punctuality, undying love for Frank Sinatra’s voice, and too many questions.

She called me the night before she died, I didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t up for talking. 10 hours later, my sister called me to tell me Mom was gone.

I hope she realized that I loved her, that while I didn’t want to be like her, I wanted her to be proud of me. Six years later, and I can barely remember her voice, but I will always remember “CHRISTINE LYNN!” when I was in trouble (which was quite often!).

She also left me with an undying love of candy corn. And Diet Coke. And stuffing. Cranberry sauce is still nasty, sorry!

This Christmas, and every other Christmas, are for you.

Ma armastan sind. Ninakupenda. Ich liebe dich. Je t’aime maman.


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