This year, I attended my first funeral in over a decade. The summer heat was met with a sudden downpour at the cemetery, yet the scene felt all too familiar. Fifteen years ago, on a bleak February afternoon, I stood in the same spot, boots sinking in the mud, hands intertwined with my mother and grandmother — a somber chain for the grandfather who had passed. Yet this August, it was my grandmother’s turn to depart, leaving me with only one hand to hold. Now, it’s just my mother and me, and our grip tightened, a promise forged in sweat to support one another through this grief and the time ahead.
Now, with Mother’s Day approaching, the weather is warming, and my children have begun their school projects. They’ll soon present me with painted handprints, lace-paper hearts, and Crayola sunflowers adorned with their smiling faces. Meanwhile, my own mother faces this holiday for the first time as a mother without her own, tasked with remembering the love she once held. I write this for her and for all those mothers seeking a hand to hold on this day.
To the mothers with young children:
I understand you will find photos on your phone, your refrigerator, and your social media that bring you face-to-face with the loved one you miss. You’ll wake up tired and yet smile as your kids bring you charred pancakes in bed. Every gift, whether homemade or store-bought, will be cherished. You’ll kiss their heads, inhaling the sweet scents of childhood — the baby shampoo, warm breaths, and that unmistakable “kid smell.” You’ll dress them, reminding them of manners during your celebratory meal, all while your heart aches for the nurturing that you too desire.
I know you’ll hide your tears, longing for the woman who once cared for you. In your mind, you’ll have snippets of conversations with her as you navigate this day, which feels more significant in her absence. At some point, you may step away, taking quick breaths before letting out the tears you’ve held back. It’s okay to cry like a child; it’s a release we all need at times. Kids excel at this, with snot and hiccups that leave you feeling both drained and purified.
And then, as little hands check on you, I know you’ll smile again. You’ll end the day as it began — with kisses, pajamas, and warm bodies to comfort you. I hope those bedtime songs and gentle caresses help soothe your spirit, allowing you to reflect on the day’s joys and its bittersweet reminders.
To the mothers of mothers:
I know you will discover old photographs tucked away in attics or albums, holding them longer as you trace the outline of a life you wish you could revisit. You’ll want to reach out to your children, but you’ll wait for their call, allowing them to experience the joys of breakfast in bed and homemade cards first. Your mothering now comes with patience, understanding the rituals you once performed.
I know you’ll smile through the phone, even as laughter, arguments, or tears echo in the background. You’ll feel joy for their happiness but also notice the silence amplify when the call ends, a stark reminder of what you’ve lost. As the day unfolds, you’ll converse with your mother in spirit, sharing all the sentiments you wish you could convey directly. It’s perfectly alright to embody all these roles: the mother, the grandmother, and yes, the child longing for her mother. When night falls, I hope you acknowledge the many Mother’s Days past and those yet to come.
To all mothers navigating the complex emotions of being motherless:
Remember you are not alone. You need not confine yourself to one role. You can grieve for the hand you no longer hold, even while cradling the hands of your children, young and old. You can be the woman in that chain, reaching out for connection while honoring the past because Mother’s Day is a time for both celebration and remembrance.
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In summary, Mother’s Day can evoke a mix of emotions for those who are motherless. It is a day to honor both the joy of motherhood and the memory of those we’ve lost, allowing us to embrace all aspects of our experiences as we navigate this complex day.