Mother’s Day

And it is Mother’s Day, or Mothering Sunday if you prefer – which my mother emphatically did. Either way, it’s a great time to show her how much you care – as Amazon, Marks and Spencer and a hundred other companies have been reminding me for several weeks. Apparently, my mother would be bowled over by perfume, flowers, chocolates, meals out, books, toiletries, balloon rides, bungee jumps or a hundred other wonderful things that make the multinationals some money. Despite knowing all this, I wouldn’t grudge a penny, except that I don’t have a mother – not anymore – not for several years now. These annual reminders in my inbox don’t sting the less with the passing of time, which isn’t to say that I think no one should celebrate the day because some of us no longer can. Quite the opposite, in fact. I think they should celebrate the heck out of it, taking the opportunity to show those who love them that they love them back.

Each Mother’s Day, I have re-read the letter I sent to my mother when she told me she was dying. It was my last chance to say the things I wanted to. I wish now that I’d written her such a letter on every Mother’s Day, because I almost left it too late. I hope that everyone remembers to speak in the midst of joyous life and not only when facing incipient loss. When my mother knew she was dying, she wrote my husband and children a birthday card each for the coming year – and one for me, of course.

Everyone else opened theirs in turn, read their special message and smiled. It took me nearly four years to open mine. Once my card had been opened and read, I knew I would never again see my name in her handwriting, never again read something written especially for me. I took the card from the drawer each birthday and held it for a while before putting it back again. When I did finally open it, I wished I had done so earlier. As well as the words of love, she told me not to be too sad, a message I could have used during those first few months. When faced with their own terminal diagnosis, not everybody thinks immediately of others, wanting to make sure they will be alright. It is the act of those who truly love. It is the act of a mother.

I have children of my own and when my time comes, I hope I can behave as she did. In that way, my mother’s gift to me will reach beyond her children to my children and to their children, none of whom she will never meet. I have no one to whom I can send a card this year, although I wish I had. But I do have the precious memory of a quintessential act of motherhood, and for that I will always be grateful.