When you get there
JUNE 20, 2014
“Text me when you get there,” she always said to me.
I texted from business trips, international trips, road trips, and the 7-minute trip from her house to my apartment.
Home. Safe. In. Love you.
Five words were the reassurance she needed. I would copy/paste the text over and over. Admittedly I scoffed a few times: “Mom, I only live 7 minutes from you.” She didn’t care. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t about the distance; it was about me being her daughter and her being my mom.
I started to miss those texts even before she was gone. That last week she was so weak; she was closer to leaving than to staying. I would still text but it was more for me than for her. I told her how grateful I was for those texts, that someone in the world cared about the minutia of my life...my coming and goings. I told her, “I’m going to miss writing you. I’m going to miss you so much.” She smiled. Even now, writing these words, I can see her smile. It was never assuming, always pure and genuine. “You can still text me Breanne,” she whispered.
We’re all committed to filling in the gaps, my siblings and I. We made a pact: call anytime you would have called mom, call when you have a memory of her, call when you miss her, or call when you feel empty. That gap will never be filled. I text and call my siblings and they do likewise, but we all know it isn’t the same. I took it for granted. I assumed she would be with us for so much longer. I don’t think we can live each day with the vibrato of relishing every moment and every person. It would be exhausting and frankly, I think it would diminish the magnitude if we were always paying attention to it. But, if you haven’t recently thanked those people who care about the minutia of your life, you should. You should embrace them and tell them thank you.
Instead of texting, I stop and think about her. I allow myself to feel the sorrow and the longing. I think of what I would have said to her. Sometimes I say it under my breath, as if sending a message to the heavens: Mom, I’m home, safe, in, and I love you.