Memories

Sometimes I feel uncomfortable being at church on Mother's Day when everyone is happily talking about their moms and planning to go spend time with them and make new memories. Sometimes it makes me feel out of place and awkward, and sometimes I don't know how to feel.

So...I'd like to take a moment and think about a few of the small, sweet memories I do have. As some have pointed out before, I am blessed to have the happy ones that I choose to share every now and then.

• My mom had a very ambitious plan for our backyard. She planted lemon, orange, and peach trees...and even a grape vine (I don't think that one ever yielded anything). Her vegetable garden did pretty well, though we'd have an overabundance of whatever vegetable it was that was thriving that year. One year we had enormous zucchinis, and it felt like we had zucchini in everything we ate everyday. I remember her laying a gigantic one in Jeremy's arms and telling him to run across the street to gift it to our neighbor who liked playing basketball with the small boy version of Jeremy that he was at the time.
• I used to follow my mom through the makeup/perfume counters of the department stores, and she would spritz me with the perfumes and then sniff me.
• I used to like watching my mom floss at night. I was so fascinated by the blue loopy thing she had to use because she had a dental bridge.
• Sometimes at night, my mom would come into our rooms and massage our feet with this wooden stick with a ball at the end. I always wriggled, because it kind of hurt...but it was nice to have your mom massaging your feet and talking with you before you fell asleep.
• We used to play card games together as a family after dinner. I remember being taught to play bridge and hearing Mom say we were playing like we were 靠天吃飯.
• I remember my last birthday present from my mom. She gave it to me just a week or so before she passed away. We were in her hospital room, and we had brought a cake to celebrate her wedding anniversary with my dad. She asked for a few moments alone with me and my sister so that we could talk about growing up and what the promise meant that came with the gold chain she gave me. I wore that necklace every day and only took it off to shower; I even wore it to bed.
• I remember us all being around Mom's hospital bed in the ICU after her bronchoscopy and watching her trembling hand try to write us a message in her swooping cursive handwriting and finally understanding that she was writing, "Continue."

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.