When she died, everything that needed to be said between me and my mom was already said. She was sorry for the pain she caused me, I was sorry for the pain I caused her back. We took a long walk and got over it. We talked. We became friends. We shared stories about our jobs. She told me how her boss got after her for hitting the wrong button on the cash register and messing up the day's receipts. "Sorry," she told the boss, "But I was leaning over the register and my boob hit the button." You have to understand, my mother could be frank. But who shares a story like that with their teenage kid?
We argued a little bit the last time we really spoke. No biggie... we weren't angry. In fact, our final conversation later that day was pretty one-sided, because she was asleep the last time I saw her alive. She grumbled a bit to acknowledge me, and that was it. June 30, 1984. The next evening, she died.
I've lived without her far longer than I did with her. I've been married to my lovely bride longer than I knew my mom. Milestones pass, and we move on. I can listen to "The Old Rugged Cross" now. I can enjoy fireworks and picnics again. I'm over the fact that someone else is enjoying the cool country air on the front porch where I last spoke to her. I have a family of my own. Nothing was left unsaid, no hurt feelings remained the day she went to heaven. A few still pictures remain to remind me of her smile. I'm blessed.
Do I miss her? Sure. But there are no regrets. She molded and shaped me the best she could, and sent me into the world like she was supposed to. A job well done, mom.
I guess the rest is up to me.
