In the last few days before Mom died, she was seriously disorientated. My youngest brother Bernard spent the penultimate day of Mom’s life with her at the hospital and after enjoying Bernard’s company for a good while, Mom asked: “Who is your Mother?”
Bernard wrote in Mom’s eulogy: “We knew her memory was fading fast, but this question seemed to come from her soul and not her mind. Instead of answering her right away, I looked deep into her eyes and knew where the question was coming from.”
Mother’s Day is not about perfume or breakfast in bed. It shouldn’t even be on a specified day – Mother’s Day should be spontaneous. It should be unique and personal, intimate – perhaps even sanctified. It’s the day when your mother is ‘there’ for you, turning up unexpectedly, when she surprises you with something special, it’s the day she paid your bale, or a fine or an outstanding debt. Mother’s Day is the day your mother sat at your sickbed, or went with you to the doctor or took you out for lunch. Mother’s Day is the day you finally understood what your mother did for you, why she did or didn’t do it, why she worried about you and how she prayed for you. Mother’s Day is the day you realise that she was right all along!
I once read that you never get over being a child as long as you have a Mother to go to. I guess I am an adult now. But it’s difficult getting my head around replacing the matriarch who was able to guide our little family with profound wisdom, strength and energy, who taught us to be thrifty, creative and sensitive to the needs of others, to be professional at work and sensible as parents. To be spiritual and if possible, religious too.
