I find it fascinating that, for those who had close relationships with their mothers, there is a seemingly universal experience after one’s mother passes. For years my mom would tell me how my dad experienced it with his mother and how difficult it was.  It just happened to me on this beautiful lazy Saturday morning.

“I think I’ll call Mom.” Nothing in particular to say or talk about, although that happens too, but just thinking how she’s probably having a lazy Saturday too, sitting out on the screened back porch in Mundelein with a cup of coffee, or watering her outdoor potted plants. Perfect time for a phone call for both of us.

This is the truth and deep sadness of such a profound loss as losing a mother. It’s not that it wasn’t time for her to go.  It was. It’s not that I miss any second of the last three difficult years. I don’t.

It’s that suddenly memories of  the many many years of love and friendship and support are triggered by a bird’s song, the temperature of the air, by morning breeze on an already warm Saturday morning.  It evokes her voice, her touch, her essence.

And essence is all that is left.