Somewhere I have a black and white photo of my mother’s purse, hanging
off a tree limb, on the edge of a beach in Maine. It’s not a particularly great
photo. But I still remember the moment I took it, thinking it looked odd and a
bit lonesome.
We’d been at my cousin’s wedding in New Hampshire. The day after the
wedding was overcast and rainy. Instead of driving south to head home, Mom
first drove north. Just so we could stop for a while at a beach. She needed to
see the ocean; walk in the sand. Like the photograph, there's not much to the
story. It was just a very “Mom” thing to do. Like hanging her purse on the
tree.
As parents I think we all know those glittering, undeniably exceptional
moments when you want to stop time. People often talk about that split second
when the gauze slips over your vision & you want the world to just stop so
you can soak in all the perfection. No crying, kiddos giggling, everyone
content & enjoying the same slice of time?
I live for those moments. Or maybe it’s that I live in them. I’m not
sure, but they rock.
My hair combed flat with a wet comb, stretched tight into a section and
then “snap!” Over an over, Mom dipping the comb in the water glass, rolling my
hair in those pink foam Goody curlers. Then she’d tuck my little head into the
60s bonnet hair dryer. You know, the kind that was like a big shower cap that
inflated with warm air. It was so loud, but the air always felt as wonderful
and warm as my mommy’s smile.
Do you ever wonder if your kids see that moment? Recognize that
perfection? Does it imprint on their brains the way it does ours?
Lately I wonder more & more - are my children holding on to the same
moments?
Sitting in the open back end of the car, with the garage door open,
watching the rain splatter in the suburban streets. Hoping for lightning so we
could count until the thunder clap hit us. Sometimes we’d have to snuggle in
jackets, or blankets, or huddle together. Usually there was no real
conversation. We were just listening. Together.
As the calendar turns to May I have no choice but to think almost
constantly of my mom. As a child the month of May was Mommy’s month. Not only
is there mother’s day, but my mom’s birthday is the 19th. Often we would end up
celebrating her on back to back weekends. But after she died, well, I’m sorry,
May, you officially became My Least Favorite Month.
I have decided that a decade of holding a grudge against 1/12 of the
calendar is probably long enough. So this year I’m working hard at shifting my
focus off of what is missing, to what I was lucky enough to have.
Which, by the way, is monumentally hard.
With all hard things the advice is to start small, right? So I’m making
a point to recall all the small moments.
Lifesavers. Along with the usual tissues, lipsticks, combs, and
whatnots, as a child it seemed Mom's purse was almost certain to have
Lifesavers. She liked all kinds of hard candy, but those little fruity rings
were second only to dried out gummy bears. The oddity of gummy bears that had
been purposefully left out to harden didn’t start until I was much older,
though.
As a kid, I could dig through the tissues and probably find a few linty
orange Lifesavers to swipe. Actually, Mom was pretty liberal with handing out
the orange ones. (Naturally, I thought it was a treat, until I realized that
she just didn’t like orange candy.) The absolute best was when she had a whole
role of cherry or butter rum.
I spotted a roll the other day in a checkout line, and in a flash I was
6 years old, digging in my mommy’s purse. I could practically smell the Revlon
lipstick blotted Kleenex. Then that moment of delight when she would say, “Sure
baby. Here you go.”
So much sweeter
than the candy.
What am I doing? Nothing. No, I'm sitting here watching the rain, trying to sort out what to do, and wishing I could do nothing. Read all day. Stay in bed and recoup. Not that I'm sick, I'm just weary. 
