Happy Birthday, Mom

When someone asks you where you come from, the answer is your mother. . . I did love my mother, but I didn’t know how much until she was gone.

Anna Quindlen, One True Thing

We talked on the phone almost every day. I’d call her or she’d call me and we’d chat about nothing in particular. Then one morning I called, and she didn’t answer. I tried again later, and later again, but there was still no answer. There was never an answer again.

After her funeral, when I was grieving and overwhelmed with the business that death demands, I’d pick up the phone as I had so many times before and dial her number. My mind knew she wasn’t there, but my heart wondered what if?  I’d lift the receiver to my ear, allow my fingers to dial the familiar number, imagine the yellow telephone on the kitchen counter ringing, and wait in anticipation, willing her hand to pick up the receiver.

I wish we had taken more photos. I wish I had asked her more questions. I wish I had listened to her more often. I wish I had spent more time with her. I wish she had more than 55 years in this life. I wish I had more than 25 years with her.

Happy 92nd Birthday, Mom. Sure miss you. Still and always.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.
1 comment
  1. That’s such a sweet picture of you and your mom.

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