| wdfifteen |
02-04-2012 07:06 PM |
Parentless
My mother died about 5 hours ago. Dad passed away Dec. 16th. I've spent the past five hours sitting and talking with my brothers and my sister - the three best people I can ever hope to know. I'm kind of avoiding sitting and talking with myself. That's why I'm here I guess.
I loved my mother, but I can't say I ever really liked her. I always judged her harshly, and I don't know why. Maybe sons are supposed to do that. We got along fine, but I always held something in reserve, not like with my siblings whom I feel free to love completely.
I remember her voice from 30 years ago when it was strong - remember she and my father talking. Their names were Donald and Mary but for reasons that elude me to this day everyone called them Pete and Katy. She was always complaining - usually about her health and how they didn't have enough money and he was always trying to make things right. I saw him work so hard to give her what she wanted and her constant complaining always pissed me off. They weren't aware of what they had or of the gifts they gave us, their children. My parents both graduated from high school but that was it. They farmed for 12 years, then gave up and dad went to work in a foundry. It took a good decade to pay off the debt from the farm. Like clockwork he came home every night, and every night mom had dinner on the table. Somehow they instilled the belief in their kids that we could do anything we wanted and we'd better aim high. I have no idea how they did it. They didn't give us any financial help, just vague expectations to achieve. Four kids: one Phd, two masters, one BS. Two millionaires, a rocket scientist, a college professor, a fantastic father with two amazing kids of his own. Man, I don't know what my parents did, but they ought to figure out how to bottle it. Their kids are their legacy, and frankly, I am proud to be the product of their upbringing. There was nothing any of us couldn't do. My sister had put a new clutch in her Plymouth Duster and called me the morning she was to receive her Phd to help her lift the transmission back in so she could get to the graduation. I already had my suit on ready to go, and the guest of honor was under the car in coveralls. Nothing we couldn't do.
I look at the photos of when she was young, when she was pregnant with me, and I don't see the connection between that strong vital woman and the cadaverous body in the bed dying. They can't be the same. My mother was very good looking.
Those voices that I remember are gone and I'll never hear them again. I remember how they annoyed me at the time. I was so impatient - always had to be somewhere.
I should have spent time savoring those voices. I wish I could hear them again. I should have tried to appreciate them more. At that I failed. I just hope they knew how much I loved them. I just want to hear my mother say "Patrick" one more time. I would run back to her and hold her so tight.
Enough rambling. It's getting misty in here.
Thank you all.
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