Finding My Mother

The year is 1943, and I am four years old. The Woolworth five-and-dime in our neighborhood has a creaky wooden floor and smells like penny candy, sickeningly sweet. I walk up one aisle and down another, heart beating fast, until a clerk leans down. "Do you need help, honey?"

My lip quivers, and I voice my fear. "Where is my mama? I can't find her." Like magic, my mother appears at the end of the aisle, her steps hurried, my baby brother in her arms. Relief washes over me when we are reunited, and I stay by her side the rest of the day.

War rages in Europe and Asia, but I am oblivious to that situation. My world revolves around my young and pretty mother. She provides everything a four-year-old requires. She reads to me, hears my bedtime prayer, and coaxes me to eat. I develop a sense of humor because she makes laughter a part of our everyday life.

Fast forward 61 years, and I have lost my mother again. I can't find her, even though I know where she lives. She is 86 and resides far from me in a nursing home in North Carolina, but the mother I know and love is gone.

Macular degeneration denies her the pleasure of reading. In years past, she devoured novels, fit newspapers and magazines into her daily routine. She celebrated the release of every new John Grisham book.

But now, she no longer possesses the sharp wit she once displayed regularly or the ability to entertain us with stories about her childhood in an Iowa coal-mining town. Mental confusion blurs her days, and her powers of concentration are vastly diminished.

Physical ailments curtail her activities, and depression erases the keen sense of humor that marked her character until very recently. The weekly letters stopped when she lost the ability to pick up a pen and put words on paper. For years, we chatted on the phone – passing on family news, discussing world events, politics, movies, books, and more. Now, she refuses to have a phone in her room, effectively cutting herself off from those who love her. Is it because a phone is a sign of permanency? She tells my brother she will be home again as soon as she gains some strength. She knows, and we know, that possibility is unlikely, but no one is strong enough to voice that thought.

Yes, I've lost my mama again. But I'm not four years old. I'm an adult who signed up for Medicare last month, a senior citizen who misses her mother. I pray for her daily. I don't pray that she will be miraculously well and strong again, for I know the aging process will not allow it. Instead, I pray that she will have comfort and peace in these final years, months, or days that remain. Even so, I feel lost again, and there is no helpful Woolworth clerk to show concern. My mother does not make a magical appearance this time.

Health concerns of my own postpone a planned trip to visit mother, but little by little I am finding her right here in my own home. My kitchen overflows with reminders of mother. Her blue enamel roasting pan, a painted china plate, a serving bowl, all evoke memories of happy times. The other day I picked up a rolling pin while looking for something, and images of my mother rolling pie pastry, sugar cookies, and cinnamon rolls moved in waves through my mind and brought a smile to my face. She learned from her mother and passed the love of baking on to me. My mother will always be with me when I bake.

Her presence is strong when I skim through my recipe box where her handwriting covers dozens of recipe cards. I linger on some to keep her close a little longer. One card has a note on the top. "Mom's Date Muffins" – it's a recipe passed on from my grandmother. On a recipe shared by my wacky, but lovable, aunt, mother wrote, "Viv's best cookie."

Family photographs decorate various rooms in my home, and photo albums help me relive the years when my mother played a vital part in my life. The camera caught her laughing, holding babies, traveling with my dad. Pictures taken with her treasured older brother capture the joy she found in his company. A surprise 80th birthday party is relived in an album of its own. In some respects, the vibrant mother I once knew slips farther and farther away, but these reminders of the past bring her close.

There's no need to ever feel like a lost child again.

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