Archive for the ‘mother’ Category

If hell is other people, what is heaven?

Wednesday, January 16th, 2013

smiley-face buttonMy cousin sent me a special gift for Christmas. I just got it yesterday.

It’s a smiley-face mug, because she says my mother loved the whole smiley-face thing, and a three page letter. Two paragraphs are about how much she loved my mother, and a couple of memories of her, including one in which she swears my mother, in a hospital miles away, whispered “good-bye” to her at the moment she died.

The rest is about how my cousin got “saved.” All you have to do is admit that you’re unworthy, that nothing you can do can ever make you worthy, and that Jesus is the only truth; and you get to go to heaven where “every desire will be fulfilled.” She doesn’t want to get there, see (and she knows, of course, that she’s going to heaven), and have my mother say, “Where’s my daughter? Didn’t you tell her?”

Because otherwise I’d be completely unaware of the whole Jesus thing, I suppose.

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Motherhood

Monday, May 10th, 2010

There are two ways to lose your mother. Actually there are many more than that, but let’s assume that she’s a good woman and you love her and want her around. You can lose her when you’re very young, and never know an adult relationship with her, and have very few, precious memories that you hardly dare think about for fear of wearing them out – that’s where I am. Or, you can lose her when you’re both older, when you’ve had way more history with her, and maybe conflicts and complications, and way more opportunity than I ever had to get to know her and love her.  (more…)

Motherless day

Sunday, May 10th, 2009

white-carnation1One of my earliest memories, one of my only memories of my mother, and the sweetest memory I have:

I am four years old. My mother and my aunt are in the kitchen, talking grownup talk. I am playing with my younger cousin, John, who is still in diapers. He is throwing a ball down the basement stairs, and I am running down and fetching it, like a dog, over and over.

It’s fun. I’m out of breath. Our basement is scary, but safe because the stairs lead off of the kitchen, where my mother and my aunt are talking, and I can hear their voices. I’m thumping all the way down, thumping all the way back up. The carpet on the stairs is thin, like felt, over the wooden steps. We all had bruises on our shins, all the time we lived in that house, from those stairs.

And they’re slippery. My cousin laughs and throws the ball. I run after it, and halfway down I slip and fall, and bump my head.

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