It is the MLK holiday and as I like to do when I have a day off from the “jobby-job” that pays the bills and keeps me fed and clothed, I like to focus on my writing.  In my search for a better understanding of how to put my thoughts and stories on paper, I was reading a passage from MLK Jr’s “Letter from Birmingham”, while making mental notes of his style of writing, without much notice my mind drifted to thoughts of my mother.

I remembered how my mom loved to read and I realized that her novels and novellas were her form of “Escapism”. She had it rough being a first-generation immigrant with 5 young children to raise while being the second bread-winner of the home. When she had a chance, she would get lost in her books.

Ruminating in that thought I realized that my yearning to write, which I secretly had ever since I can remember, could have been born from wanting her attention, and ultimately her love.  I wanted her to find me as interesting and captivating as the book in her hand.  I wanted her to find comfort in my existence as she found in her books.

My mother has had dementia for a minute now and no longer reads her novels and novellas.  I have lost the opportunity to write the novel that she could hold and lose herself in for hours.  However, I did not miss the opportunity to tell her my dream. 

About nine years ago, I opened up to her for the first time in my life.  I had never shared my dreams with her mainly because we could not communicate without it turning into an argument. However, at that time I was knee-deep in the separation, which unbeknownst to me at the time would ultimately end in divorce. She became my confidante, my friend, my sister-in-pain, she became my Mami Soco again, for the second time in my life.

For the first time in my life, we understood each other.  We spoke for hours, and I would tell her my heartache and about how I wanted to reinvent myself, how I wanted to stop fluxing between hurting and being numb.  I told her how I wanted to write a novel to distract myself.   For a short while, we sent each other handwritten letters in the mail, and in some of her letters, she would give me pointers on how to work the narrative of the story.  She may never read the novel, but she has already heard the story that is yet to be written.  

If you have read some of my previous posts, you know I did not have a good relationship with my mom.  I have come to terms with the fact that I can’t do much about that now.  I have no choice since dementia has already taken away all the versions of the mother I once knew.  I am ok with that too, as I can honestly say out of the 6-7 versions I can remember of her, I only truly loved two. 

Those will be the versions of her I will remember most.  Those will be the versions I will choose to focus on once she is gone.  Ultimately, those are the versions that mattered.  The versions that loved me, accepted me, and forgave me.  As the unknown day of saying farewell to my mother creeps closer, I steadily work on becoming (to myself) the mother who continues to love, accept, and forgive me, in hopes of feeling a little less lost once she is gone.

Can anything really prepare me for that loss? Have I told her all I needed to tell her? Will she enter the next plane of existence be it her heaven or my return to the ether from which we came, knowing I love her? 

Do you have experience with losing a parent? Do you have wisdom you can share? I would love to hear it.