Sometimes I really miss my Mom…

Like I did today.  I heard an old Joni Mitchell song and it made me think of my Mom.

And I missed her.

I don’t know why a Joni Mitchell song would bring such a strong feeling of my Mom to the surface.  She didn’t even listen to Joni Mitchell.

It was Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson my mother listened to.

Thanksgiving dinner was a big deal with my Mom.  She always made out her menu weeks before and would shop for goods up until the very day before.

She always made too much of too many different things to eat.  Seriously.  She’d have like 15 items on the table and a turkey with all the trimmings, too!  And then there would be 2 or 3 pies — and a pineapple upsidedown cake.

Pineapple upsidedown cake. 

I never cared for it until the last Thanksgiving I remember her making it.  I don’t even know why I cut myself a slice.

It was delicious.  It melted in my mouth.  It was so good.

I did my Thanksgiving meal shopping this morning after I dropped darling hubby off at his office.  It will be just him and me for dinner.  Darling son will be his girlfriend’s family — but he will still be expecting leftovers at home for the rest of the week.

My Dad is driving up from the big O to have dinner at my brother’s — then he is driving back home.  He is not even staying overnight.  It’s my plan to pop over for a quick visit before he leaves.

I thought about him.  Driving up by himself and then back.  Alone.  And back home to his empty house.

My Mom cooked for my Dad.  Every meal was about my Dad.  Sometimes she would say she’d made this or that because one of us, her children, favored it — but she really cooked for my Dad. 

I never cook like my Mom.  We’re having turkey and like 5 other things with it tomorrow.  I did get two pies from a local charity sale and I’m baking them tonight (actually hubby is doing it for me).  Pumpkin and Cherry.

My Mom and I talked on the phone at least once a week — for hours.  And then she went into the hospital.  She was hooked up to a respirator and oxygen for the months and months she was in the hospital.  I only got to hear her speak once more in all that time.  It was only for a few minutes when the nurse came in, took her off everything, and then stood by at the ready in case being off all the equipment was too much…

I could barely hear her.  I imagine it was because her throat was incredibly dry.  I can’t remember what she said.

Oh, God.  I can’t even remember what she said.

I mourned my Mom every day she was in the hospital.  I mourned over the loss of our telephone calls.  Oh, I could call and talk to Mom, but she couldn’t talk back. 

I wrote to her in the hospital until my Dad complained about how long it took him to read the letters to my Mom — and about the crazy way I would spell some words.  So I stopped writing her.

I don’t know who I hate more for that.  Prolly me.  I shoulda just said, "fuck you, Dad."  And kept on writing her long letters with lots of crazy spelled words.

I knew she wasn’t coming home ever again.  I knew. 

I am still so angry at her.  She was supposed to live into her nineties.  Her mother did.  My grandparents did.  They lived long lives.  Mom didn’t even make it to seventy.

I missed my Mom today.