Washington Irving once said, “A mother is the truest friend we have… when trouble comes upon us, she will cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness.” 

We don't often think about the day she will no longer be there to "dissipate the clouds of darkness." We push any thoughts of losing our mothers aside until the reality of it hits us head-on. 

I lost my mother in the Spring of 2022, and I'm not the same person I was before she left us. Losing our mothers has a way of changing the way we see the world. A part of us dies with her. To say everything changes is an understatement. Holidays are no longer the happy occasions we saw them as when our mothers were there, reminding us of the gleeful Christmases of childhood, the Easter egg hunts followed by amazing homemade dinners, the warm gathering of family on Thanksgiving and deciding who would sit at the children's table. It was me, by the way. I always enjoyed sitting with my nieces and soaking up that energy and innocence of youth.

When she left us, my brother, sister, and I talked of feeling like orphans, as most people do when they've lost both parents. We lost our father in 2019. That was my first experience with losing someone really close to me, and I sobbed for days on end. That ache had just begun to lessen a bit when my mother died. 

I've had many dreams of her, and she's always happy in them. Within a day or two of her death, I had a dream of her looking young and beautiful and, best of all, happy.

Since my world fell apart this past July, I've ached for her presence, to be able to cry on her shoulder and have her tell me perfect words of comfort. My sister recently lost her long-term partner to Cancer. We've both felt our mother's absence more painfully of late. 

I still talk to her. I ask her to come and visit me while I sleep and console me when I feel like the heavy emotional pain is tearing me apart. I'm certain she's stopped by at least once to comfort me as I awoke feeling peaceful after requesting a visit from her.

My sister and I talk of taking our mother shopping with us, as we often feel drawn to buy things she would have loved. I recently bought an antique set of paper dolls from the fifties because my mom always talked of her love for them.

I wish I could tell the world how special my mother was. She didn't have the best childhood, so she made certain her children had her presence, which was far more valuable than the things she couldn't afford to buy us. She made us caramel apples one Autumn, a memory I can see sharply in my mind to this day. On snowy Winter days, we were made to stay inside once we'd had our fill of the snow, as she didn't want to be cleaning wet snow from her floors. We didn't mind though, as she'd make us steaming mugs of hot cocoa with the little marshmallows. She once put on her "American Graffiti" album and taught us and a cousin how to do "The Stroll." 

She was a fairly strict disciplinarian but became a little more like a best friend once we were grown. I could talk to her about pretty much anything. I loved telling her stories of my nights working the Psych unit and hearing her laugh. She had the best laugh. It filled the room and nestled into the corners of my heart.

I will miss her until I see her again one day. Until then, I carry her with me wherever life takes me and try to listen in case she wants to give me sage advice as she did while alive.

I can feel her presence now, as I write about her. I know exactly what she would say. "Oh, Tam, you're going to make me cry." I just hope I told her how much I appreciated her while she was here.