I was going to write about cloth napkins today when I read the below excerpt on my cousin, Becky’s, blog. It’s about her dear mother who passed away, (my father’s eldest sister, Lilly, whom all of us nieces and nephews endearingly called, Ohio Mommy). It’s so beautiful that it made me weep for Becky’s dear loss, but also for the wonderful example of a mom that Ohio Mommy was. I can only hope and pray that my kids would remember me in such a beautiful way. My love and prayers go out to Ohio Mommy’s three children, my cousins, who had the best of the best kinda mom. I posted Becky’s words below on my blog because I never want to forget them, and because I want to remember how thankful we should be for the dear people God puts in our lives.
“It’s hard to believe it’s been almost 3 years. 3 years since I heard her say my name, 3 years since I looked into her beautiful eyes, and 3 years since I held her hand in mine. 3 years since she saw my sweet babies, 3 years since I became one of those girls who doesn’t have her mom anymore. And yeah, I often look at my friends who still have their mothers in their lives and I envy them. I knew the day she died, nothing would feel the same again, and in some ways, that has been true. Home has become where my children are and the feeling I had when I was around her, I haven’t found anywhere else. Heaven seems not so distant, and I think about it a lot more than I did before someone I loved so much went to live there.
Some of the sweetest moments with my children have been when they have asked me about her. “Mommy, when will we see Ohio Ammachy (“Ammachi” in our Indian language means “Grandmother”)?” “Mommy, tell us a story ’bout when you were a little girl and your mommy told you a story.” “Mommy tell us about when you were sick and your mommy would let you sleep in her bed all night.” “Mom, remember when Ammachi would share her crackers with me?” “Remember when I would help her put her socks on?” “Remember when I would show her my dress and she would smile at me?” And I want to tell them about her, to explain to them, to share with them, the mother I had. But how do you translate into language, what it is you want to say? It’s hard to put into words what comes to your mind when you think of her, what you miss the most about her, and how you feel about her not being here now. It’s like looking back and seeing a shadow. You know what you think you remember, and what you wish you could forget, and what you long to hold onto.
Mostly, though, you pause now and then, and in your minds’ eye and in your hearts’ memory, you remember a love and a patience so strong and deep and a heart that cherished you and a voice that called you chickadee and prayed with you every morning, and gentle hands that touched your chin and combed your hair into two braids every night before bedtime, and you blink back tears and sometimes you let them fall, and when your small daughter looks at you knowingly and says, “Mom, you miss your Mom?” you hug her so close and snug, and you thank God for His unfathomable wisdom and for family. The one you had and the one you have.”