I don’t mind so much that there seem to be designated days of celebration or recognition for everything under the sun. It’s a solid marketing ploy by greeting card companies, florists, or any company that caters to these types of gifts. I just don’t happen to be one of those people who feel obligated to observe them.
Yes, I sent my mother a flower but not for one second did I believe it was some sort of symbol of her significance or my appreciation. I feel confident my mother knows exactly how I feel about her and what she means to me and my life.
She knows, not because of a sappy card a freelance writer sequestered in an apartment or basement somewhere has pounded out on a laptop for $5 a pop — and I can say this, I have made a living doing similar jobs myself.
My mother knows, truly knows in her heart, that I love her beyond words despite the fact I spend a great deal of time writing about our relationship, especially on social media. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a single word has infinite possibilities and still it is impossible for me to express even a fraction of what I would like to say.
Instead, I act.
Not a day passes we don’t talk at least once and usually much more. Even when she is angry with me, always deservedly so as I seem to have that effect at times, it never interferes with an “I love you.” I not only feel but want her to know she is and always will be the most important woman in my life. Yes, I am a momma’s boy and it doesn’t bother me a bit.
More than once during my adult life she has had no problem during my most obstinate moments to tell me she loves me. She may not like me very much … but yes, she loves me. I pushed every limit that woman has, have been a wild child my entire life, rebellious and headstrong, unbending and at times unforgiving, driven by a need to thrive on just being me … a self-indulgent egoist who has no issue in owning it. I am the youngest child of four and the only boy so, that may explain a smidgen of that.
She has held my hand and dried my tears as a child, a boy, and a man. She has been there through heartaches and loss. That woman dragged me kicking and screaming into the closest resemblance of adulthood I can manage … and along the way gave me the desire to be a good man.
My shortcomings are just that: mine. So next time I show up to whatever it is you invited me to and am wearing at least a pair of flip flops and pants, you can thank her.
I could spend an immeasurable amount of pages describing the innumerable ways I am indebted to my mother and still my description would pale in comparison to reality. In the face of that stark reality, I’ll do the only thing I know to do.
Momma, I love you, now and always. As long as I draw a breath you will live on in me. As for telling you how deeply I feel, all I can do is make a promise, give you my word quoting one of my favorite writers (yes, one of those hippies I read):
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” — Jack Kerouac