From scratch.

My Mom was a small woman and a big woman. She was small in stature, but heavy; she was overweight for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories involve sitting on Mom's soft lap, encircled and consoled in her soft arms. I recall laying my head on her soft chest where I could hear her heart, hear her breathing. With my head on her chest, I also remember her amplified voice and laughter as she rocked me.

My Mom loved to laugh and she could laugh with just about anybody. I am a skeptic, but I was blessed with a mother who saw the best in people; if I hadn't lived with her bottomless compassion and absolute absence of prejudice, I doubt I'd be able to look past my naturally-skeptic nearsightedness. And I'm not being hard on myself, I'm being honest. I owe my sense of humour in large part to my Mom's ability to see the humour in just about every situation. Hers was not an easy life, so I consider that type of humour a talent.

She was the first person I ever loved. The first person I reached my little arms out to, the first person I yearned for, the first person I smiled at. Her arms were my first resting place and my safest haven, the spot where I contemplated my first steps. My Mom was the first to kiss me, stroke my little bald head, tell me I was beautiful. My Mom was the first person in my life. She made me from scratch.

I was not a planned child, but I always knew I was a wanted child. My Mom was a divorced single mother of three boys and she met my Dad and was soon pregnant. I was not an accident, I was a gift. And it's not that my Mom told me that over and over; she didn't because she didn't have to. I simply always knew she felt that way. She didn't always approve of my choices, but she loved me unconditionally. She loved me when I couldn't love myself.

When Sonja was born, I remember telling my Mom that I finally understood how much she loved me; how deeply she loved all of us kids. Now that she's gone, I finally understand how deeply I love her. This chasm of silence stretched out before me is sad and scary and horrible; I keep wanting to call her. I need her voice. Her laugh. I need my Mom. There are so many things I want to ask her; so many things we haven't talked about. The finality of death is cruel and I hate, hate, hate that I didn't get to say goodbye.

And so, in my grief I am again that small, thin child who has climbed up onto my Mom's soft lap to be encircled in her soft arms. My head on her chest, my ear over her heart, my tears on her skin, and her kiss on my head. In my grief, this is the enduring image in my mind. A longing for my mother's arms that I know and accept will never leave me. 

I love you, Mommy.