Share This Article
It is not a happy memory, but it lives for me like a wonderful dream. My father was doing his work in the field and I was playing with my toys nearby, when suddenly I saw her. It’s hard to believe that she has been gone so long now, but as soon as I saw her standing there by the fence looking at me through those big brown eyes of hers, I knew: this would be one of the days when my mother was there.
I ran to her, and she dropped everything. She reached out and scooped me up in her arms like we do when I’m having a bad dream that’s about to end. The sun was shining down on us as she rocked back and forth with me in the field full of flowers just outside my grandmother’s house where I would spend so many years over the next few decades. It was one of those days when my mother was there again — for only a little while, but it meant more than anything else could ever have done or will be able to do now that she has been gone for so long already..
– – –
The Day When My Mother Was There: A Story About Love Lost And Remembered By Tawnya Reaves
The days when my mother was there are the ones where I know she’s with me. This would be one of those days–the day that it all came back to her, and she remembered who we were. We ran into each other in a field full of flowers just outside my grandmother’s house–the place where so many happy memories took shape and became something more than they had been before. She scooped me up in her arms like we used to do when I was little, but this time everything felt different because the person who held me wasn’t going anywhere again; not ever, for as long as she could stay..
“We run into each other in a field full of flowers just outside my grandmother’s house–the place where so many happy memories took shape and became something more than they had been before. She scooped me up in her arms like we used to do when I was little, but this time everything felt different because the person who held me wasn’t going anywhere again; not ever, for as long as she could stay.”
Tawnya Reaves
When I was young, my mother would take me to a field of flowers just outside her grandmother’s house. We called it our “field trip”. It doesn’t seem like much now that I’m grown-up and have kids of my own, but back then those trips were some of the happiest moments in my life. Even if she had to work late or couldn’t get there on time because we didn’t know what time she’d be getting off duty at the hospital, sometimes she came. And when she did come–even if it wasn’t for long–those days changed into something more than they had been before; memories took shape and became something more than they had been before because the person who held me wasn’t going anywhere.
-Tawnya Reaves
The days when my mother was there were good. Even if she had to work late or couldn’t get there on time because we didn’t know what time she’d be getting off duty at the hospital, sometimes she came. And when she did come–even if it wasn’t for long–those days changed into something more than they had been before; memories took shape and became something more than they had been before because the person who held me wasn’t going anywhere. For a little while I could pretend that nothing would change and we would all live happily ever after. But then there are those other times when her shift started early in the morning or ran over so that by the time she got home, I was already in bed and asleep.
And then there were those days when she would have to take me with her because the hospital had a strict policy that children couldn’t be left alone; they said it wasn’t safe for them. But what did they know? They didn’t live through things like we do–or at least not any more than I could tell from looking around the halls of our house or hearing about other people’s mothers. There are times now when my mother is here, but only just barely–just enough so she knows where we are and how we’re doing without actually being able to make us happy anymore.”
“The days when my mother was there”
“ted early in the morning or ran over so that by the time she got home, I was already in bed and asleep.”
“And then there were those days when she would have to take me with her because the hospital had a strict policy that children couldn’t be left alone; they said it wasn’t safe for them. But what did they know?”
“They didn’t live through things like we do–or at least not any more than I could tell from looking around the halls of our house or hearing about other people’s mothers.”
“There are times now when my mother is here,” but only just barely –just enough so she knows where we are and how we’re doing without actually being able to be with us or provide for us in the way that she did before.”
“But for those few moments, I always smile and say thank you because it’s nice to have her here–just a little bit. That is why there are times when my mother was really there: not just in spirit but physically too; beside me as if nothing had changed at all.”
She would spend hours on end reading out loud after school while we took turns doing our homework on the kitchen table. Or days where she would work so hard fixing up some old furniture from who knows how many years ago, like it mattered what they looked like anymore. There were also mornings where I could barely walk into the house without tripping over an open bag of chips or an empty can of soda.
“Mom, I’m not hungry.”
“That’s OK–just have a little.”
I knew it was better to just let her keep pouring me some cereal than try and argue with her about how full I already felt when the bowl itself could barely hold any more. So we would both sit down together at the table in silence for what seemed like hours before she finally left to do whatever it is that moms did while their sons were still living under their roof.
Mornings where my mother really wasn’t there: aware of anything going on around us; checking if we got our work done from school or preparing dinner even though Dad ditched his duties long ago. – I never really knew what to do with myself when she wasn’t there. When the only thing left was me and my own thoughts in this giant, empty house that used to feel so full of us all together–her cooking dinner or reading bedtime stories before tucking me into bed at night. I would try to find something else to do until finally it became easier just lay on the couch some nights after school watching TV for hours without a single break just because it felt like anything but being alone was better than nothing. And sometimes these episodes could last up until late into the morning where I had overslept from not realizing how long they went on originally and found her standing outside patiently waiting by my bedroom door,
