Monday, April 13, 2015

What I Should've Said

My mom passed away this past February.

We spent the next month trying to figure out what came next. A collaboration of people, aunts and uncles, cousins, grannys, and friends, all trying to sort out how to find closure or say goodbye to someone who didn't want a funeral.

My dad didn't have a funeral, either. Both my parents loathed the idea of a black-clad congregation crying over them, cringed at the thought of their bodies on display in attire they'd never dream of wearing in life.

In the end, a small church service was held. A spray of red roses and a photograph replaced the casket. My brother wore his official Army uniform, which is what soldiers wear to funerals. He didn't do it for that reason, but because Mom never did get to see him in his official uniform and would have loved it. I cried a little, seeing him. My mom would've cried, too. She was so proud of him.

Many didn't wear black, myself included. I also wore my mother's necklace that holds my father's ashes. She would've liked that. Sort of like he was there.

Finally, we come to the point. Besides the preacher who presided over the service, there were four speakers. All three of my brothers got up and spoke about Mom, and Granny told a story about an angel she saw when she and my mother were driving through a thunderstorm years ago. I did not speak.

Some people asked me casually why I didn't; others thought it might be rude to inquire. So, I'll tell you the why:  I was physically unable to tell my own kids about either one of my parents' passing. My husband had to give the news. It's like the words freeze in my throat, and my heart seizes. I simply can't. The minute Spencer, my younger brother and the first to speak, opened his mouth, I started crying. I didn't want to get up in front of everyone and be unable to say what I wanted to. After all, I'm a writer, not a speaker.

So, I'm saying now what I ought to have said then, and I'm doing it with the correct medium.

My mother had a tendency to repeat herself. Over and over, she'd tell you the same story. Growing up, I heard over and over again this particular thing:  "There's nothing in the world that could make me stop loving you." She'd pause. "Except murder. If you killed someone, I don't know that I could forgive you."

Basically, short of taking someone's life, there's nothing she wouldn't forgive. It was her way of explaining to us how much she loved us. She'd forgive any trespass, even if it took time, and love us despite anything--if we were gay, did drugs, robbed banks, voted Republican. She'd be disappointed, hurt, maybe angry. But she would love us despite it.

When someone dies, the first thing we do is start looking back and analyzing our relationship with that person. Every argument, every shitty thing you ever said, every time you might've been better, spoke better, been nicer, had more patience. While in Georgia, I heard so many people mention regrets. We all had something to feel guilty for.

And if you're one of those people, I'm telling you to cut that shit out. Right now. Because I don't think Mom reserved that kind of fierce love for her kids alone; I think she loved her brothers, sister, and mother to the same standard--short of murder, she forgave you. And I know she'd be upset with any of us who lingered over old regrets. She loved us too much to want that. She wanted her life celebrated, not her death mourned. And so she'd tell us to think of the good times, and let go of the bad. And so I will endeavor to do so in spite of my own guilt over decisions I might have made differently had I known how little time she had left.

And now, as to celebrating her life. Let me just say, my parents got around. To a world-traveler, it may seem humble, but it's certainly not a life one would regret. Mom and Dad got out there and made tracks.

From four-wheeling in the wilds of southern Georgia to camping in the Smokey Mountains. Mom had been to the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, and Pike's Peak in Colorado. Walked the streets of Juarez, Mexico and rode through Canada. She'd seen the big skies of Montana and the swamps of southern Louisiana. Partied it up at Cheyenne Frontier Days and Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco, Pearl Street mall in Boulder, CO, Disney World and Disneyland, the badlands of South Dakota, Mount Rushmore, Washington, D.C., the alien crash site in Roswell. She ate at Emeril's in Orlando and the original Morton's Steakhouse in Chicago. Gambled in Las Vegas, skied in Colorado, and gave birth to twins in Kansas City. She got a tattoo in Cancun, Mexico and did it all with four kids and a successful marriage of over thirty years.

And that's just the stuff she did after she turned 30.



My hat off to you, Mom. I can only hope to do so much. I turn 30 this year, so I'd better get the ball rolling.

In conclusion, my parents lived, filled in every corner of life they could. They reached out, grabbed it, and so my brothers and I inherited incredible, lasting memories I wouldn't trade for anything. My parents left this world with nothing, but managed to give us everything.

2 comments:

  1. Anonymous8:47 AM

    I Love this Nikki, you said it so well. I'm proud I can say I was with her for some of those tracks. The times I spent with Janice were the highlights of my life.
    Janice was the most fun person to be around. She was so funny, I told her she could have been a comedian. We never disagreed, we always had the same thing on our minds, always wanted to do the same thing. That's why we had so much fun together. When I came to visit you guys out west your dad went out of his way to make sure I had a good time, drove me all through the mountains from the tops to the bottoms. These are times I will never forget, and the best times of my life. I met Janice when I was 17, she was 19. The way in which we met says a lot about your moms character. We just happened to be dating the same guy, well I gave this guy a ring and well he turned around and gave my ring to Janice. Somehow Janice found out and got my phone number. She called me and asked if the ring belonged to me, I said yes it did. I couldn't believe this stranger was calling me and trying to give me my ring back. I thought, Wow, this a special person that would do this. So Janice told me where she was living and I drove over there to meet her and she gave me my ring back, and the story of how she came to have it and how we were being two-timed and played for fools by this guy. After talking with her for a few minutes I felt a special bond with her and wanted to be friends, and so did she. We made plans to go a concert together that night. We became inseparable from this day on. This was the beginning of long and wonderful friendship. The next day we got together and called this scumbag that was two-timing us and got him on three way and we really got him good, he was shocked, he didn't even know we knew each other. We decided who needs him when we have each other. We thanked him for bringing me and Janice together. From that point on we knew we would always have a very honest and trusting friendship, and we did. The last few years we had always been trying to plan to plan a get-together but we just couldn't make it happen. I will regret that, and I will her very much. This just proves that life is short, live it now, don't wait. Love Linda

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I've heard this story! I love it. It's one of the best How We Met stories I've ever heard, and I loved hearing Mom tell me how you guys busted that guy. I guess everything really does happen for a reason. You were my mom's Constant, the person always there and on her side, and I'm glad she had you for a best friend.

      Delete