For 38 years I’ve heard the story of that 20th day in January. It was a snowy, icy car ride to the hospital from our home in Trenton, New Jersey. Even the tiniest bumps in the road were magnified to feel like mountains of contractions. My mom didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl, although in her heart she longed for a daughter. The story goes that after my birth, she gazed into my eyes and saw my complete persona rather than that of a newborn. She says she saw the world in my eyes.

This is “the story” I would proudly request each year as part of my birthday tradition. I’ve heard it for decades in person, while some years my phone calls from Boston, London, Japan, and San Diego would suffice. “Tell me the story” I would beg, never growing tired of hearing it year after year… for 38 years.

So now, as my 39th year begins, a new tradition has evolved. I will tell my son the story about his grandma MeiMei on the day I became her daughter. Although altered by the life cycle, the story still continues... forever.

Post Script

After my son woke up on my birthday morning and was snuggling with us in bed, I explained that his MeiMei used to tell me a story about my birth. “Want it, want it,” he said with such determination. So I told him the story and he listened quietly. When we finished, he said he wanted to get a book from his room. "On the Day You Were Born" was what he came out holding. What a precious angel. Indeed, a new tradition is born.

Awkward Moments

It was unexpectedly awkward seeing my mom’s close friends recently. I could feel their critical gaze as they examined my physical features looking for signs of grief or duress. It triggered the reactions I experienced shortly after mom died. I had forgotten what it felt like to be under the gaze of these onlookers. Almost 7 months later, I have become spoiled that most people have resumed to treating me in the here and now without scrutiny.

How delighted I thought one of her friends would be to hear some positive news about my life. I was wrong, and received jealousy instead. Yes, I realize I evoke the essence of my mom, and it is undoubtedly painful and awkward for others who loved her to witness. Perhaps they are projecting their raw emotions onto their perceptions of me. I don’t like it.

These moments make me yearn for my mom even more, as nobody else could understand this indescribable experience better. How is it possible that my appreciation of my mom has been magnified even more since she’s been gone? I notice so many of her traits that no other human seems capable of possessing. What an amazing and complex woman- all in one soul.

I love and miss you so much, mama.

September 28, 2009

She appeared rather unexpectedly near the end of a dream.  Warmth and love radiated from her like a mother basking in the glow of her newborn.  An innate familiarity of all knowingness, coupled with an indescribable feeling of comfort, engulfed me by her presence.  “She’s still alive,” I thought to myself as I soaked in her blissful face with life oozing from her pores.

We knew in our hearts my mom’s impromptu offer to join her on an overnight road trip wasn’t aligned for us at this juncture.  My husband’s face flashed a willingness to embark on this journey, knowing what the precious the time together would mean to us.  But the answer surfaced immediately:  the drive was too much, too late, and too far for our baby who was already asleep... just to fulfill our selfish desires.  Mom intuitively agreed. 

Departing as quickly as she arrived, I accompanied mom back to her car and hopped in, knowing we could share a few more moments of life together.  She impulsively offered again, this time proposing a short daytrip I could take alone and meet her a few days later.  I knew the timing was right.  We chatted a little longer while circling the driveway until the car came to a halt.  It was time for mom to resume her journey.

She paused for a moment while her eyes cast their gaze in admiration of the new plants outside our home; the ones I had planted and yearned to show to this miraculous gardener and amazing mom after she died.  My heart sank when I realized I had forgotten to take her to our lush patio where some of her babies (her plants) were flourishing.  “Next time” she promised as she drove away, leaving her love behind.