“Jamie, your mother is gone.” March 25, 1979. My Sunday morning began with those 5 words. As an eight-year-old, I wanted my weekend to be filled with cartoons, Captain Crunch Peanut Butter cereal and bike-riding with my friends through our hilly neighborhood in Charleston, not a life-altering trauma. For many years, the grief from losing my mother caused a dull, throbbing sadness in my heart. Within the puzzle of my life appeared an empty space, a piece was missing. Missing her had greater effects on me than anyone, even myself, realized. Most of all, I felt alone. She had been my support, my source of affection and a God-given love that could never be replaced. I missed her kindness and care. I missed her hugs and bedtime kisses. I missed her voice. I missed how she would ask me about my day at school as she brought me cookies and milk. These unrequited feelings went on for years.
Growing up, I would receive monthly letters in the mail from my grandmother. Along with a dollar and a stick of juicy fruit gum came tales of my grandfather’s latest adventures, or stories about Morris the cat, which ever happened to be more exciting at the time.
stories about Morris the cat, which ever happened to be more exciting at the time. Once, grandma explained, my grandfather outran three police officers on his motorcycle, and before they could pull into the driveway at the house, he had halfway disassembled the bike claiming there was no way it could have been him since the bike wasn’t even functional. It worked - that time. One letter from grandma told about the cat’s latest catch, a small, grey mouse which he thoughtfully delivered to the back door as if it were an early birthday gift. Although that news didn’t seem quite as exciting, grandma said the absence of drama was better for her nerves. After reading her letters, I would respond with reports of boring classes, new friends and the latest botched science experiment. On one occasion, after she mentioned missing her daughter (my mother), I decided to write a letter to her. I knew she wouldn’t get it but I wanted desperately to tell her how much I missed her. I don’t recall which stained the paper more, the ink or the tears.
“Jamie, your mother is gone.” March 25, 1979. My Sunday morning began with those 5 words.