Memories of my Beautiful Mother

I stood there, looking at the grand necklace. It was my favorite, it’s jewels sparkle like stars. My mother had given it to me the night of my prom. It had been hers when she was my age. Tears threaten, I feel them coming. This always happens when I think of her. The images sweep over me involuntarily. Strong images of my mother losing her hair and throwing up flash somewhere behind my eyes. Then came the headaches, very sudden and very severe. She would pop painkillers like breath mints, though it provided little to no relief. Confused and upset, she finally went to the doctor, “I’m sorry Helen, we don’t know what this is. I’m afraid all we can do is wait.” Her face fell as she heard the news, this is not what she wanted to hear. As summer turned to fall, she became more and more ill, eventually becoming bedridden. Out of options, we had to put her in the hospital. I blink back more tears as I am swallowed by another painful memory. I had walked slowly into the room. The stench of miscellaneous medications hung in the air. Monitors beep my mother’s vitals to the staff. She lay on the soft white hospital bed, tubes attached to her arms like twisted snakes. She is intubated and sleeping. Out in the hall, I hear the doctor speaking softly to my father, “Jeff” he said needing to compose himself to keep from crying, “She lost the ability to breathe last night. I would suggest you start saying your good byes, it won’t be long.” Tears fill my eyes as I start to sob uncontrollably. My father’s reassuring hand on my shoulder felt like a welcome friend. I spin around and embrace him with all my might. Three days later, my mother was gone. Yet another gripping memory consumes me, taking hold of me. This one is of the funeral. I was wearing my favorite black dress, the one that hugs my figure and features a flowy skirt stopping crisply at the knees. I hold a single white lily, her favorite flower. I laid it on the casket as it’s slowly and gently lowered down. A voice brings me out of the parade of memories, “Sweetie, are you okay?” It’s my father. He’s standing in the doorway, looking concerned. “I was just thinking about mother. I can’t believe they never figured out what she had” I reply tears welling up again. Instantly, he puts his arms around me and kisses the top of my head, “You know what I see when I look at you? I see an independent woman who can stand on her own two feet. Just like her mother.” I blush, “You know what I want to be?” He glances at me, “What’s that?” “I want to be a journalist. Just like her” I reply proudly. He looks me deeply in the eyes, “Well the world better prepare for the truth you will expose. You’ll be an excellent journalist, you got your mother’s prowess with words.” I lose myself in this moment as we embrace, tears in my eyes as I think of my lovely mother.