When my mother died I did not see it coming. I suppose it’s commonly that way with death, but when I was awakened by the ringing phone and my dad said grimly, “you need to come home now,” that was the furthest thing from my mind. She was only 54 years old for goodness sake, and even though that may have seemed old when I was a teenager, now that I’m a sneeze from forty it’s super young. She had suffered through a debilitating car wreck that had left her with traumatic brain injury, but for ten years she had gotten past her setbacks and healed in miraculous ways. Despite her seizures and memory loss, we always thought she’d live forever, and it’s because of that I never imaged one night I would say goodbye and it would be the last one.
I think that’s always bothered me. The last time I had seen her was for a small birthday dinner in her honor, and I can still hazily recall giving her a hug before I left to go back home. She had been in her recliner, covered up with the new, leopard-print blanket she had just unwrapped from me. I had kissed her cheek nonchalantly, said I love you, and hurried on my way. Had I known it would be our last encounter here on earth I would have savored it more. I would have memorized more deeply the way her auburn hair picked up the lamp light, or how her lips took on a thin, upturned smirk whenever she looked at me. I can barely see it now, like it’s a fading memory. I know I would have lingered longer, had I known.
I remember her saying, “do you have to go so soon?”
And though I probably didn’t I had replied, “yeah, I better head on home.”
If I had known that would be our last conversation I would have said something more impactful. I would have told her all the things I thought, but typically never said. Things like “you’re my hero,” or “I can never repay you for the many things you gave up to make life better for me.” But I didn’t.