It was a simple, blue, ceramic, flower pot. A pot I had hung onto for years and put to different uses. Mostly to store baby diapering products on our changing table shelf. A pot I’ve had since my first baby was born. A pot brought to me in the hospital with beautiful blue flowers. A pot given me by my mother.
My mother.
It’s a stupid little pot.
But suddenly it meant so much more.
And it got me thinking, and depressing, and sulking. What if everything my Mom has ever given me becomes lost or broken? What if, one by one, ever so slowly, every material possession I have from my Mom disappears?
But more than that – what if, just as slowly, but just as suddenly, one by one, every memory, every thought, every impression, every smell, every touch, every embrace, every stroke, every recollection, every story, every feeling I have, or have had about my Mom vanishes? Vanishes!?
It’s happening already. I can feel it happening.
26 years of memories. 26 years of memories are disintegrating. 26 years. Only 26 years. That’s all I have. All I had.
But those possessions? I have possessions. I have items from her. I have items of hers. And with each one of those items, I have a memory. Concrete memories. Memories that are real. Memories that can be felt and seen and touched. Memories that don’t seem so distant. Don’t seem so surreal.
Is it real?
Is this really real?
Is she really gone?
I still can’t grasp that sometimes.
I can’t comprehend it.
I just can’t.
Sometimes.
3 comments:
Hug.
I get attached to "things" too. I mean, they remind me very strongly of the person who gave them to me, and the memories associated with the object, and the giver.
I get it.
Thanks for making me cry and giving me an awful headache.
This is really sweet, Tasha. I think you have a better reason than most to have cried over a broken flower pot--because it wasn't really the pot that you were mourning. I know I didn't really know your mother when she was here, but the way you honor and cherish her memory says a lot about the kind of mother she was, and the kind of daughter you are. You are hers and she is yours, always, no matter what else may get broken.
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