(2002)
All things being equal, I may be more willing to succumb to the strength or the obverse infirmity that made total belief or nonbelief an option. If there is a God then there could be order, and solace in the notion that there's a plan that I cannot (should not?) comprehend, and that I will be reunited with my mother-with everyone-eventually. Or, if there is no God, then the universe is senseless, random, not particularly malicious (neither justice nor punishment) and the only Truth is the type that man and Nature provide: one could just move on, secure to drift into the darkening distance. But I have neither privilege: the refuge of the faithful or the freedom of the faithless.
What I have are questions. The ones I ask and the ones people ask me:
What happened to your mother?
She died.
What did she die of?
Death.
Any way you describe or explain it, it's ultimately part of a larger equation that now equals nothing.
Life without a mother leaves one with no option but to answer questions with more questions.
Questions:
You know that woman you saw in the grocery store, stocking up on frozen vegetables and paper towels, tissue, and toilet paper for her family? That was my mother, too.
That woman who waved at you when you stopped to let her cross the street in front of you? That was my mother, too.
That woman who cut you off on the freeway, then flipped the finger when you laid on your horn? That was my mother, too.
That woman on TV sewing a blanket for her first grandchild, or bringing out pumpkin pie after Thanksgiving dinner? That was my mother, too.
That woman who carried you in her womb, raised you and then sent you off into the world, smiling beneath her tears? That was my mother...
Do you see what I'm saying? My mother isn't your mother, but I see a part of her in every mother I see, just as you may see yours all around you someday, if you don't already.
All things being equal, I might never say or even think any of these things. But all things are not equal. All things are never equal.
YOU ARE READING
Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone
Non-FictionQuestion: How do you get over it? Answer: You don't. You don't want to. It makes you who you are. Sean Murphy lost his mother days after her fifty-ninth birthday, following a five-year battle with cancer. In this eloquent memoir, he explores his f...
