Remembering . . . and Encountering

Summary

About 25 years ago, my mother died. Her death affected me so much that for several months afterward, I was disoriented. I had trouble mentally focusing on things and spent more time than usual staring out the window, daydreaming, thinking about her, trying to imagine what life would be like without her. I also had one cold after another, and Jenny said it was grief making me sick.

Although my mother and I were very different from each other, we shared a peculiar connection. Perhaps we were connected in a peculiar way because we shared the same birthday. Perhaps our peculiar connection happened because I was the only child of nine pregnancies to come out of her womb alive. Maybe we were deeply connected because for the first 10 years of my life she was the parent who raised me. During that first decade, my father was too busy milking cows and raising crops, or going to college, or working the assembly line at Star Tank, to pay much attention to me. Mom was the parent I went to when I was hungry, or wanted to be held, or had an injury to fix, or wanted someone to read a story out loud, or wanted someone to play marbles with. Early in life, a unique connection was laid down with her that never went away.