Missing Mom

From a distance the resemblance is striking. The shape of her face, the softness of her neck, the way she turns her head to speak to her companion.

Occasionally I dream about her—not often, but when I do I wake wrapped in the most bitter sweetness.

Closer now, and it’s her smiling almond-shaped eyes and the wrinkles at the corner that seem most familiar. I’m tempted to strike up a conversation just to hear the sound of her voice.

I know I wouldn’t hear the lilt or the words I expect.  It’s been almost exactly thirty-five years since I heard it, but I’m certain I’d recognize her voice.

I used to catch glimpses, shadows really, and find myself asking “what if?” even as I accepted the impossibility.

Now I’m right beside her, sneaking surreptitious glances, and I see she looks nothing like Mom after all. But those moments, they were sweet. The remembering and the longing.

I don’t believe I’ll ever stop missing her.


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.
1 comment
  1. Love never dies

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