Motherless Children -- Folk Song

My March 19th post (The Scientist -- Coldplay) seemed very popular; apparently people are interested in whether or not you killed your mother. I got a lot of feedback from my family about it. In response to such feedback, I dedicate this blog to my family, those who are still around to speak to me, and to those who are not.

In reflection, the responses to the aforementioned blog post led me to understand that the post was one in which I had been working toward for a long time. Because I do feel guilty, not that I was responsible, but that there must have been things, signs that I missed. Perhaps I could have known what to look for, what to do about her health care, which I felt was less than subpar. But in my heart I know that there was nothing to be done. Her death was just what it was, nothing can ever change that, and we were lucky to have her here as long as we did.   Even to this day I feel that she is with me both in my heart and in the person that I am. And when I make that perfect pan of cornbread or the perfect pancake batter I can almost taste her hand in my cooking.

On the way back from the hospital--and it's odd now that I can't remember exactly which time it was--if it was when we first found out that Mom was sick or when she had just passed away. But anyway, there wasn't much on the radio so I ended up tuning into NPR. Normally it's not my thing, but after being brought up listening to it on the radio every day of my life, I turn to it when only country music will tune in.  On this particular day, it just happened to be bluegrass music, some rendition of an old song, that had the line, "...a sister will do when the mother is gone..." And I remember thinking that, in the cars ahead of us were my sisters. And when I thought of losing my mother I was sure that my sisters would be there for me, even my father and brother, and remaining grandparents. But how could we really carry on without Mom?

I suppose that my greatest fear is that if I don't write this down here, in my journal, somewhere, people may forget what a great person she was. Even the things that we may have complained, as children do, about Mom--her brutal honesty, her moodiness, or her unmistakeable authority over all--I find myself missing those things most of all. And on occaision you just need to hear what an idiot you're being. And Mom would have told you--sometimes without being asked.

It is also hard for me to write, knowing that Dad reads this and that he is the one in all of this who has lost his wife, the mother of his children, and his best friend. I don't want to ever have to feel the feeling that he must feel when he thinks of Mom. But I also know that the longer you live, the more people that you will have to watch die. Why is it that some are just so much harder than others? I thought the death of my Grandma Roark would break my heart. But losing my mother is so much harder. In time, I guess you get used to dead people not being around anymore. Like, oh let's go see Grandma--oh yeah, that's right, she's dead. Okay so Grandpa it is! 


The last time I went to visit Dad I accidentally said, as we were preparing to leave, "Okay, let's go to Papa and GG's!" Really enthusiastically in the beginning, with my face crumbling in front of Anna-Lee into one of those oh-shit-I-just-said-the-wrong-thing cringes after I realized what had just escaped my lips.

My Grandpa Roark told my husband, after the passing of Jamie's Mother, "It only hurts when you think about it." Simple, straightforward and true, those words.


I suppose that it does only hurt when you think about it. But when there's not a day that goes by that you don't think about her, it hurts every day. I guess it will eventually get easier as time passes, but right now it's hard not to miss her.