I’m called in for one last bedtime request. Evelyn needs her llama-patterned blanket pulled up higher and asks, “Remember when you told me a lady sewed this for me?”
“Yes, it was Judy, and she used to call you ‘my lil peanut,’” I reply.
“My lil’ Peanut! I want to meet her again.”
“Me too,” I say, kissing her, patting Archie, and leaving the room.
Little does Evelyn know, that the last time she saw Judy, she was only a year old and doesn’t remember her. Or that I haven’t had the heart to tell her Judy has passed away.
But I’m grateful to keep the memory of this lovely, spirited Minnesotan neighbor, two doors down, alive. It means a lot to me.
I’m all about keeping memories alive. Having lived over half my life with the memory of my Mom, I’d say I’m close to perfecting the art of connecting with my memories. When reminders of her come into my day, I make space for these snapshots with a nod and an “Oh yeah, she did that, didn’t she?” In daily phone conversations with my brother – something new and very meaningful for me – the shared experiences we have with Mom naturally come up.
It’s odd because rarely does anyone else speak of my Mom. My memories are something I share with Dave, Evelyn, or a client, but then there’s my brother, a link to the past, and he has his own stories of that time. Casually, he’ll say, “You know how Mom…” and it feels like I’m in an improv, acting on a stage. “Yeah,” I respond, creating the wood-floored living room, and the sliding back door. “She’d let me snuggle on the couch after bedtime when Dad was in the rec room. If she heard him coming, I had to hop over the couch and run down the hall to bed.”
The images flicker in my mind like a flashlight in a basement. They’re alive – my Mom with her short, petite body fitting perfectly, legs fully out, and my brother with his black, wiry-curled hair. The sneakiness of their shared cuddle lights something in me.
For years after she died, I wanted more – more stories, more perspectives, anything to feel connected with her. The lack and void at times were excruciating. But when something came, like a box from my Dad or a story from an aunt, I felt like a kid at Disney, licking every last cotton candy sugar morsel off my fingers.
It’s funny. I thought I was going to talk about lowering my expectations of myself and appreciating flexibility, but it seems like I needed to connect with some memories.
I’d love to share the pages of handwritten poetry my Mom wrote. Although it’s stowed away in a sentimental box in the basement, and I’m too cozily tucked in a blanket with a stuffy nose, I will put a reminder down to do that. I remember how in awe I was when I got those pages at her ability to articulate such complex feelings, specifically around the passage of time. Perhaps I’ll do a weekly spotlight on my Mom’s writing. I know there’s a handful of them or so.
Alright, I’m going to try to keep a relaxed body during the remainder of this 3-3 Kraken game. I doubt I’ll succeed.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 