Friday, April 8, 2016

She calls me Mom. 8 weeks into grief as a mother.

“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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