Reassembling mom

Last Friday marked 18 years since my mom died. During that time, she missed my high school and college graduations, meeting my dog Emma, buying my first house and all the ups and downs. 

Within the last few years, I’ve acquired most of her things. And according to her driver’s license, she was 5’7” and 180 pounds. After reading her diary entries about her weight-loss attempts, I’m sure she’s thrilled about this information being published in the paper. 

I think about my own body. Is it like hers?

Most days, I have brain fog. However, this doesn’t stop me from being a smart, witty and funny person. Mom was a teacher. So, as I journey on my quest to put my mom back together, I assume she was smart too. In reassembling my mom, I hope to resemble my mom.

Today, I am 27 years old. My mom was 37, a month before her birthday when she died. This throws me into a crisis some nights, framing my life around what it would feel like to be her. What should I do with my next 10 years if that is all I have left?

It also begs the question, what shouldn’t I do with my next 10 years? What I know is that I will prioritize my time with people and things that make me feel good. That’s time in the garden, time with my partner and time spent prioritizing my health. 

Part of that time, each year, is spent honoring what I remember and reassembling what I don’t about my mom. My family has no rituals to remember her and as a big fan of rituals, I created my own. 

Every time I’m at the ice cream shop, I order my flavor on top and a scoop for mom on the bottom. I watch “A Christmas Story.” But the main thing I like to do is talk about her. 

My family line is dying; it might end with me. 

There are not a lot of us out there and I’ve never felt a calling to be a mom. The least I can do for the women who came before me is to honor them by talking about them or, in my case, writing. Even if all that’s left is a love of crappy mint-flavored chocolates, their memory will stay alive a little bit longer.

The holiday seasons leave me feeling bitter, nostalgic and antsy to move somewhere warmer since one of my mom’s last parting gifts to me was to die on Thanksgiving. Thanks, mom. This leads me to believe that she had a sense of humor, just like mine.