Unexpected

We traveled to Maine last week with our two precious girls in the backseat. The older of the two pleasantly occupied with a Wal-Mart 88-cent activity book for ten hours, the other needing more coddling and support. There I was, the Mom, doing things I remember my Mom doing on that long journey to Bethel.

The hours passed as we embraced the Vermont and New Hampshire hillsides, their long bending roads, tasting a bit of each town, driving through sun, clouds, sprinkles, and pure ecstasy, as if a canvas spilled out before us in all its array, each color marking its place. The clean air circled and danced through our car as we breathed through teethy smiles, our wide eyes soaking it all in. Bliss.

My heart was so delighted when we arrived. I actually felt it jump, so happy. To see my husband holding our sweet baby, and our older one standing so ready for adventure. We made it and were so ready to begin our week. This was our journey, our little get-a-way. I thought of so many things prior to our going: a grocery list, places to see, snacks, projects for A. The one thing I didn’t think I’d see, though, the last thing I thought of in preparing, was how often I’d be reminded of her. Of Mom.

Yet there she was in all that I did. In the gentle pace and crunch of our feet on the sand. In the dark paths lit only by stars at night. In the great big field where I held her hand and dreamed with her. In the flowered bed sheet that she shared with my dad for so many years. And there he lay without her. A luggage bag on the other side of the bed. Where she should be.

I saw her in the old country store with the woman who continues to make the same molasses cookies. There she stood with her familiar sweet face and her pure white hair, so old and rightfully so. She asked my mother’s name and if she’d remember her, if we were from around there. In moments like that I almost don’t know what to say. She’s so far away. How do you speak of someone who’s no longer in your world? How do I explain our story (without crying) to this precious lady wearing a lovely vintage apron in an almost-perfect store decorated with wooden toys and canned beets? I don’t. I keep it simple. I talk about molasses cookies and how we’ve always loved them.

I often wonder what it would be like to sit on the picnic table bench with her now, to touch the vinyl tablecloth and see her fingers hold her coffee mug. To see the steam rise in the cool Maine air. To observe her watching our girls and making them laugh. To go to the diner we used to visit and hear the waitress call us “sweeties”. God, how I miss her. What a gap remains in her absence.

As I sat in our cabin each morning, the first to wake, nursing my sweet baby girl, I’d glance at my dad sleeping. I’d envision her next to him, her graying hair in its beautiful waves. I’d see her smooth, soft skin. See her hand on my dad. Her loving touch that graced us all. I didn’t expect to see her so much on this trip, and as much as I weep, it was good and cleansing.

I often wonder what she’d think of me now and who I’m becoming. What we’d talk about. This is just one of those days when I wish she could be on the other line.