unday nights have always been problematic. The quiet anticipation and sometimes dread of Monday morning that hover over the soul – feelings of fear, melancholy, anxiety, sadness and other such emotions seem to reign over Sunday nights. Not sure why but it’s also the time that you are forced into that corner where you ponder and question your existence. 

On this particular Sunday night I fear the loss of my mother’s memory. I want to describe the smell of her Belmont Dairy apartment – full of cooking and love permeating even my suitcase and all it’s contents lying open on her living room floor – so I don’t forget… The sound of her voice and the words she used to comfort, to admonish, to share, to advise, to love… on this Sunday night I miss her with such an intensity. An intensity that is filled with seemingly endless gaps of silence ringing in my ears. A feeling that I haven’t felt before because I never didn’t have my mother to turn to, to count on, to be there in times of joy and times of sorrow. 

There’s a hole in the soul of all of us who have lost our moms. A void that cannot be filled with any of the myriad sayings that try to convince us “they are in a better place” or “their suffering is over.” My selfish me doesn’t want her in a better place – I want her here next to me so I can tell her how much she means to me, to just give her a big hug even though in her own words she was not that “huggy” type; to just sit with her reminiscing about all the experiences we had together and revel in the stories of her youth – our connection to our past; to admire her strength and tenacity and “doorzettingsvermogen”; to remember she too cried and laughed and lamented and had disappointments in life. 

As I finish writing these last thank you cards to all the loving friends and family who expressed their condolences, I weep realizing that the tangible connections to her are waning. I’ve been wearing one of Mom’s gold chains to keep her close to me. I’ve been picturing her smile, hearing the sound of her laugh, feeling her gentle healing touch. I’ve been talking to her – telling her how much she is missed, how much I miss her and how she left behind so many who remember her with such fondness and joy. 

And so on this particular Sunday night and this bout of Sunday night blues, I write this in memory of my mama in hopes she will never ever be forgotten.