It was almost three years ago that my son and I were walking out of the gym together on our way home, me from work and him from a workout, when I heard a tiny sound that stopped me in my tracks.
I was told recently that my yoga class is like therapy. The person who told me that was in an extraordinarily difficult place in her life, one I could relate to because I’ve been someplace similar recently. She meant it as a compliment (and I took it as such), and also as a thank you…
It was six months ago today that my mother passed. I’d intended to let that less-than-happy milestone pass without fanfare, but I find I can’t ignore it. Today, while I was fishing around in a basket in search of an old wallet of mine, I pulled out a glove that was hers.
Today I had some adulting to do that I didn’t look forward to. I was feeling anxious and irritable and unsure of myself. And then I remembered what my mother thought of me. She thought I was brilliant, talented, and beautiful, better than anybody in any room (Jewish mother—what can I say).
There’s stuff I can’t talk about (because it’s not my stuff to share). Then there’s the loss of my mother (which doesn’t stop happening even months after it’s happened). There’s the pain that comes from reading the news–from chanting neo-Nazis to environmental devastation.
I recall a day earlier this year, when my mother’s upcoming death was a certainty but not imminent, that she and I spent an entire afternoon in her closet, as she picked things out for me to try on (we were always the same size in absolutely everything).