1 of 70

Write now Article Tools

In Search of My Mother's Garden: Two weeks before my mother died, she celebrated her 80th birthday in grand style. Dressed in her best silk pantsuit, she dined on filet mignon and creme brulee at her favorite French restaurant, surrounded by the people she loved most. Despite her weakened body, she cleaned her plate of every last morsel and gave a thankful toast for her wonderful and fortunate long life.

No one expected her to pass so soon after, not even her doctors. But she was at peace when her time came, leaving the world through a painless slumber, what most people would call a blessing. But I was not ready to let her go and I didn't feel anything divine whatsoever. Something felt broken inside me. I was a middle-aged woman with a family of my own, but I was suddenly a motherless child, navigating in the world without the one anchor that held strong and steadfast throughout my life's storms.

Our relationship had not been an easy one. We were both strong-willed, opinionated and stubborn. We did not always share a common view of the world - the ties that bound us were not really cut from the same cloth. When I was young, I wished for a more easy going, homey mother who baked cookies and knitted sweaters, instead of my mom, the urban sophisticate who hated housework and preferred designer labels.

After college, I moved far away from my Chicago home, set new roots in Seattle and built a life on my own terms. This was a grave disappointment to my mother, and, despite frequent cross-country visits, she never really adjusted to our long-distance relationship or to the quirky ambiance of the Northwest.

I, eventually, became the mother who baked the cookies but I also learned to appreciate my mother's sense of style and great wisdom. She, in turn, took pride in my career accomplishments and my earthy, domestic talents.

For almost 30 years, we spent our Saturday mornings on the phone with one another. Nothing else took precedent, 9 AM, one of us dialed the other. Our conversations reflected the rhythm of our week. We shared our light moments and our darker moods. We counseled one another and cheered each other on. She was quick to share a harsh judgment, but also enormously compassionate during times of stress. We relied upon one another deeply.

During those first couple of months after my mother's death, the abysmal, emptiness of Saturday mornings was very hard to bare. I stayed in bed, long past my need for sleep. My wise husband left me to face the silence in my own way, occasionally peeking in the doorway to offer coffee or the newspaper. Sometimes I'd flip endlessly through TV channels, other times I'd just lay there listening to the winter rain pounding against the window.

Time has a way of patching us up and sending us onward and I eventually recovered my Saturdays and, somewhere along the way, healed my grieving heart. My own 2 daughters (who live a mere 206 from my 425) visit often these days. We are a bit more aware of life's fragility and take a little less for granted. The girls are learning to fashion themselves both away from and within the mother who raised them.

For now at least, we live close by, knowing, full well, the price my mother and I paid for our distance. We share our ups and downs, and cheer each other on. So often, I hear my mother's words flow between us and there is something both sad and magical in this.

Alice Walker said "In search of my mother's garden, I found my own." I know my mother would be pleased that life and love goes on....standing tall as the cedars outside my window, planted deeply and forever.

Learn more about this author, Linda S. Mills.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Saying good-bye?
We want to hear your view. Write now!