Reverie

Thanksgiving Day

         I know everyone else hurts, too. Gary said that Mom is with him in everything he does: cleaning out his refrigerator, cooking a turkey, sewing, and doing laundry. If he still played football, she’d be there with him for that, too. (She'd been a tomboy, a tough one, and she taught him to punt.)

         Some days it feels harder to cope than others. Some days I just want to be alone and cry. I still want my Mom. I want to talk to her every day. I want to show her things. I want to hug her. The holidays are hard, because she always tried so hard to make them special, and she succeeded. I have conflicting feelings: I want to do everything the way she did, but I want to do it differently, too, because it’s not the same without her.

         My biggest consolation today has been the memory of her smile. It was beautiful and started with her eyes. When she was pleased, it radiated out to everyone else. When Doris was happy, everyone was happy. Her smile was real, it was warm, and it came from deep within. Her pleasure was contagious. I’d like to think if she were here with us today, she’d be smiling.