“Mom.” She said it as a matter of fact. Up until the last
days I saw her, at the age of 22 Taylor called my name for a myriad of reasons
and from across the room, across the house, while I was on another floor of the
house, it didn’t matter and I never knew why she was calling me. It could have
been important or to find a hairbrush or her keys. It could have been anything,
“Mom.” From the time she uttered the word, Taylor called to me.
The funny thing is that it annoyed me a lot of the time when
she was older. It was a dance. Taylor called to me, I told her to come get me
instead of running to her because she could want to ask about the weather or
how to get an abused dog away from an owner. I never knew what she wanted but I
always went to her. Now, I can’t. The hardest part about writing about my
daughter is the ‘was’ and ‘is’. I believe she ‘is’….I want for her to ‘be.’ I
want to hear her call my name.
Sometimes, she wanted me to lay down with her, even as she
was older. I cherished those moments. As she laid on the couch watching TV I
frequently laid right on top of her, giggling and smooching her face. She was
fun to aggravate. She was easily agitated with a slight grin to let me know she
did love my affection. Sometimes, I just laid behind her in a rare moment and
most every day I would step in front of her for a hug, interrupting her quick
paced steps attempting to get out the door, usually late for something, always
on a mission.
Taylor raced around the house in circles almost daily
searching for her keys which were inevitably right where she tossed them on the
couch, along with her shoes by the door, purse almost anywhere, and anything
else that she carried in. It was a tricky thing, looking for her keys. We,
Justin and I, prayed for a peaceful and calm resolution to the almost daily
key-finding mission. She would either express eternal gratitude or hell fire
when we couldn’t find them for her, which was rare. It is so odd to me that I
rarely saw significance in most items left by a person who passed on to another
life. But, now I cherish her keychain held by her brother, held in his hands
each day. I felt pride as he walked in the door one day after cleaning out her
car. Her keychain held Tommy’s keys. One difference between Tommy and Taylor is
that he probably hasn’t lost his keys more than once. He’s holding a massive part of Taylor, one that guaranteed time with her,
though fleeting, filled with anticipation or worry, or like dynamite. I smile
at the memory of her calling my name simply to find her keys.
While I was sorting laundry downstairs, she called me from
upstairs, a lot of times from her room. Taylor called me
on the phone with the same tone, same urgency, same need, “Mom.” “Yes, Taylor?”
Every time no matter the reason. I listened and watched for the phone to ring
for years, even daily.
Now, I long for, wish I could hear, listen for her to call, “Mom.”
“Please, Taylor,” I beg to myself silently. Call my name. Just one more time. I
want to be needed by her. I want to be her mom. I want the physical presence
and to hug her against her will while she was in a hurry and I giggled. I want
her messes in the bathroom and to rush to get her a towel if she didn’t bring
one into the shower. Hell, I miss her calling my name into the bathroom WHILE
she was in the shower. Those seemed like the most intimate times because she
was usually relaxed and wanted to talk about something calmly, something she
had been thinking of, something that maintained that bond between us that will
never be broken. I feel lost sometimes and find myself wanting to mother. At
the same time, I wince at seeing small children and long for memories with my
kids that I’m sure will come in time. She won’t need me to help her with an
apartment or to furnish her first house. She doesn’t need me to help her nurse
a baby like I nursed her. She won’t express to me the magic of the bond between
her as a mother and her baby. She won’t need help on her wedding day. All of
those thoughts and that desperate mourning for what will never be, I try to
keep at arm’s length. No, no, no. Don’t think about that. Think about who she
was, who she is to me. I don’t have to close my eyes to hear her voice or to
hear her call my name. My dynamic, aggressive, strong, fragile, sensitive girl called
to me and I came. I long for that one word in the entire universe, spanning
time and distance, begging for it, desperate to hear say, “Mom.”
Taylor did call me the night she left the physical world
behind. If I were able to hear her on the other end, if I were able to reach
her when I tried to call her back, I know I would have heard her say my name.
Maybe she would say goodbye, anyway. But, I do know the one word she would have
said if I could just hear her, just one time when it mattered more than life.
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