You brought my father, who died 15 years ago, back to me. He was the person who would lie down with me in my bed at night, and let me snuggle into his shoulder as I fell asleep. It was his side of my parents’ double bed I’d go to if I woke in the middle of the night in need of comfort and company, and he’d make room for me. I’d spend part of every Sunday morning skooched up next to him on the couch while he read the cartoons from the newspaper to me.
And then, sometime too soon, we stopped having that kind of physical closeness. I have all kinds of theories why, and it was probably appropriate at some level…
After my own son was born, there were times I’d lie with my dad in a fort we’d built with blankets and tables for all the grandkids during a Christmas visit. But I didn’t tuck into him.
Once in my mid-40’s and he in his early 80’s, though, he was lying in the same double bed he and my mother still shared, and I laid down beside him and tucked my head onto his shoulder. I stayed with him there for what seemed a long time. It was a magical, and a little awkward, and tender, and perhaps a little emotionally risky to initiate that kind of old familiar intimacy. But it is one of my most vivid memories of him, of us— I can still feel it in my body today. I’m so glad we had that gift.
All this to say, I have carried those moments inside my heart all my life. I imagine my dad did too. As will Edie and you. Thank you for this sweet reminder.
OMG, I'm in bed reading and sobbing. I love the way you describe this: "It was magical, and a little awkward, and tender, and perhaps a little emotionally risky to initiate that kind of old familiar intimacy." Thank you for saying this because it IS risky. There are so mnay things - love, hurt, distance, time, open wounds, rules, mores, expectations, fears - that make this kind of intimacy so complicated. I am so glad you had that again, and I understand how it lives on in the body. Thank you for sharing this, Jackie.
Exactly, Kim! There are so many things that make (every kind of?) intimacy complicated. I adored my dad and felt so loved by him, but was also furious with, and hurt by, and distant from him. His interior life was at least as knotty and intricate as mine, and we both brought all our intergenerational muck with us into our relationship. So the wonder of those moments — when love and tenderness are so sharply and purely experienced— is a shimmering mystery.
Thanks for seeing me. And thanks for letting me, and all your readers, know you. I love this community you’ve created.
My word, this is stunning. And so poignant to my own mother heart. I obsessively record my granddaughters behaviors, adorable remarks, funny sayings and work to memorize her eyes, the way her hair smells, how she smiles, thinks and reasons as a child of nearly 4. I don't ever want to forget. Thank you for this beautiful word vomit.
Also it was so poignant to me that you chose O'Keefe's watercolors to illustrate this piece. She was my cultural idol from about age 12 to forever and in high school I did a year-long project about her, delving deep into her writings and philosophy about life and art. I strove to celebrate small incidents of beauty in my own life. Her particular skill with watercolor-- a medium in which you lay down color and then you have seconds in which to make adjustments or, preferably, find happiness in however it came out-- truly captivated me. Seeing those paintings again made my heart flutter!
So much to think about in this piece, Kim. I always had a close relationship with my mom, but I wish I had written more about my feelings about my mom as they happened in time and space. It's hard now because with my mom's Alzheimer's I find myself searching desperately in my mind for memories of what she used to be like. Those old memories so often feel supplanted by current conditions of how she is now. I've heard from a few people who have gone through this with their own parents that the old memories will eventually flood back and reposition themselves-- move back to the front of the line, so to speak. Not that I would ever want to erase what we are currently experiencing, but sometimes I'm so full of longing, I just want to jettison new stuff in place of the old.
I didn't write much down about my feelings as a young person. The one time I tried keeping a diary as a child (spurred on by television characters' romantic fixation on diaries) was the one period in my life that I was mad at my mom and resented her for the breakup of my parents' marriage. Every time I return to that diary, it's the messy hurt that I see.
I recently discovered that my mom has a file called "EVA" and in it are many, many letters and documents going back to high school. I wrote her a letter from college that I had no memory of writing that took my breath away! In it I wrote very earnestly about everything I was feeling about my boyfriend at the time, when the relationship was still young and I was discovering things about myself-- and reading it I was so struck by how much I trusted my mom with my heart (a fact I knew but the experience of seeing it in words was huge). Before I found my best friends, before I got married, before I had children-- my mother was my person. That letter was a reminder of our bond, so deep and so true.
I read this to my 97 year old special mom. She saw the truth in it. She is unable to communicate her feelings, or thoughts, very well. So my wife and I have to anticipate her needs – read her mind. Her feelings usually come out in little giggly grunts, sometimes whole sentences like, "That would be fine." She likes conversation but I have to be the conductor. When I finished reading this piece aloud Ms.F., my wife commented on how beautiful it was, and her mother muttered, "hmmm, yes indeed."
Thank you for believing in words – the writing down of them. Be assured that your questions: "Who will need what I leave behind? Who will read about what we did here?" have already been answered.
From what I gather from your writing, my mother and I had (and have) a closer relationship than you did with yours. But still, this sentence hit me in the heart. I’d like to do better, but I’m not sure how.
You know my writing has been reflective and often critical of the way I grew up. Sometimes I worry my parents, particularly my mother, read my words and get hurt by them. I hope not. She’s a great mother. I’m going to work on it.
My 23-year-old son calls either me or my wife every day. I know how special that is, and I’m so grateful!
I often think of my mom as the most important person in my life because there was so much love and so much brokenness that I see now she couldn’t fix. But then I just felt a lot of hurt I hadn’t cleared out, so even though I longed for her love, I couldn’t make myself vulnerable to her. Edie made herself vulnerable and I had the privilege and the healthiness to be able to be there for her. I see now I blamed my mom when it wasn’t her fault. But I also know I only could see that after she died. I needed the space to see everything.
If you can make yourself vulnerable to your mom in ways that fill you both, I say do it. There is still time. And believe me, you will be glad you did.
Reading this felt like I was water on sand ebbing and flowing, just like life. It was a beautiful sensation. As always your writing gets to the heart of life. Thanks!
When one daughter moved to Seattle to go to college, the dog and I became so depressed. He curled up and slept outside her bedroom door waiting for her return; I waited for the phone calls that were never often enough.
That daughter's daughter graduated from college last June and our daughter and I commiserated on how our children grow up and leave us. The phone calls are never often enough but the memories of tender connection remain. ❤️
YesJanet! You said it so perfectly. We might never have this kind of deep connection again. You never know so you just have to savor it. I love that she now gets it, too. And i do wish I had let my mother have more of this. It would’ve been an easy gift.
I did not have this closeness with my mother, either, so we savor these connections with our daughters even more. But when the grandkids come, it is truly heaven on earth.
One of the saddest things for me is that my grandchildren don't remember many of the times we were together. Luckily, I did take some photos and write a few things down. I think the feelings of the times might still be remembered because they are pretty loving, as much as teens and young adults can be. Being a grandmother for me, has been a much bigger joy than I ever expected. Not the stress of being a parent, just the fun of being together. And all the ages have mostly been great. (Ok, a few pre-teen moments might have been improved on). Seeing yourself in the cycle of life, even when you are close to the end, is so interesting. And to remember the different ages and stages I went through, hopefully allows me to grant grace to them as they become who they are meant to be.
I think, even if they forget details, they remember the vibes and feelings behind your time together. If bring a grandma has brought you joy, chances are you are a good one!
I love your comment about being a part of th circle of life. I think it's okay to be okay with that.
A beautiful story! You are a writer BECAUSE you were born a writer. Regarding Georgia O’Keeffe, if you’re ever in Santa Fe, New Mexico, there’s a whole museum of her original work. She was and is spectacular. Write on.
You brought my father, who died 15 years ago, back to me. He was the person who would lie down with me in my bed at night, and let me snuggle into his shoulder as I fell asleep. It was his side of my parents’ double bed I’d go to if I woke in the middle of the night in need of comfort and company, and he’d make room for me. I’d spend part of every Sunday morning skooched up next to him on the couch while he read the cartoons from the newspaper to me.
And then, sometime too soon, we stopped having that kind of physical closeness. I have all kinds of theories why, and it was probably appropriate at some level…
After my own son was born, there were times I’d lie with my dad in a fort we’d built with blankets and tables for all the grandkids during a Christmas visit. But I didn’t tuck into him.
Once in my mid-40’s and he in his early 80’s, though, he was lying in the same double bed he and my mother still shared, and I laid down beside him and tucked my head onto his shoulder. I stayed with him there for what seemed a long time. It was a magical, and a little awkward, and tender, and perhaps a little emotionally risky to initiate that kind of old familiar intimacy. But it is one of my most vivid memories of him, of us— I can still feel it in my body today. I’m so glad we had that gift.
All this to say, I have carried those moments inside my heart all my life. I imagine my dad did too. As will Edie and you. Thank you for this sweet reminder.
OMG, I'm in bed reading and sobbing. I love the way you describe this: "It was magical, and a little awkward, and tender, and perhaps a little emotionally risky to initiate that kind of old familiar intimacy." Thank you for saying this because it IS risky. There are so mnay things - love, hurt, distance, time, open wounds, rules, mores, expectations, fears - that make this kind of intimacy so complicated. I am so glad you had that again, and I understand how it lives on in the body. Thank you for sharing this, Jackie.
Exactly, Kim! There are so many things that make (every kind of?) intimacy complicated. I adored my dad and felt so loved by him, but was also furious with, and hurt by, and distant from him. His interior life was at least as knotty and intricate as mine, and we both brought all our intergenerational muck with us into our relationship. So the wonder of those moments — when love and tenderness are so sharply and purely experienced— is a shimmering mystery.
Thanks for seeing me. And thanks for letting me, and all your readers, know you. I love this community you’ve created.
My word, this is stunning. And so poignant to my own mother heart. I obsessively record my granddaughters behaviors, adorable remarks, funny sayings and work to memorize her eyes, the way her hair smells, how she smiles, thinks and reasons as a child of nearly 4. I don't ever want to forget. Thank you for this beautiful word vomit.
Also it was so poignant to me that you chose O'Keefe's watercolors to illustrate this piece. She was my cultural idol from about age 12 to forever and in high school I did a year-long project about her, delving deep into her writings and philosophy about life and art. I strove to celebrate small incidents of beauty in my own life. Her particular skill with watercolor-- a medium in which you lay down color and then you have seconds in which to make adjustments or, preferably, find happiness in however it came out-- truly captivated me. Seeing those paintings again made my heart flutter!
So much to think about in this piece, Kim. I always had a close relationship with my mom, but I wish I had written more about my feelings about my mom as they happened in time and space. It's hard now because with my mom's Alzheimer's I find myself searching desperately in my mind for memories of what she used to be like. Those old memories so often feel supplanted by current conditions of how she is now. I've heard from a few people who have gone through this with their own parents that the old memories will eventually flood back and reposition themselves-- move back to the front of the line, so to speak. Not that I would ever want to erase what we are currently experiencing, but sometimes I'm so full of longing, I just want to jettison new stuff in place of the old.
I didn't write much down about my feelings as a young person. The one time I tried keeping a diary as a child (spurred on by television characters' romantic fixation on diaries) was the one period in my life that I was mad at my mom and resented her for the breakup of my parents' marriage. Every time I return to that diary, it's the messy hurt that I see.
I recently discovered that my mom has a file called "EVA" and in it are many, many letters and documents going back to high school. I wrote her a letter from college that I had no memory of writing that took my breath away! In it I wrote very earnestly about everything I was feeling about my boyfriend at the time, when the relationship was still young and I was discovering things about myself-- and reading it I was so struck by how much I trusted my mom with my heart (a fact I knew but the experience of seeing it in words was huge). Before I found my best friends, before I got married, before I had children-- my mother was my person. That letter was a reminder of our bond, so deep and so true.
I read this to my 97 year old special mom. She saw the truth in it. She is unable to communicate her feelings, or thoughts, very well. So my wife and I have to anticipate her needs – read her mind. Her feelings usually come out in little giggly grunts, sometimes whole sentences like, "That would be fine." She likes conversation but I have to be the conductor. When I finished reading this piece aloud Ms.F., my wife commented on how beautiful it was, and her mother muttered, "hmmm, yes indeed."
Thank you for believing in words – the writing down of them. Be assured that your questions: "Who will need what I leave behind? Who will read about what we did here?" have already been answered.
ROBERT!!!! You made me cry in the check out of Costco.
You read this to your mom???? I am so honored. what a gift for you to give me. Thank you. So happy you are here.
So happy the emotion is reciprocal Kim. BTW, I’ve been crying a lot at check-outs; every time I look at the receipt! (mic drop)
Ha ha ha ha ha ha love your mic drop!
How beautiful!
“I wish I had let her have this.”
This sentence grabbed me.
From what I gather from your writing, my mother and I had (and have) a closer relationship than you did with yours. But still, this sentence hit me in the heart. I’d like to do better, but I’m not sure how.
You know my writing has been reflective and often critical of the way I grew up. Sometimes I worry my parents, particularly my mother, read my words and get hurt by them. I hope not. She’s a great mother. I’m going to work on it.
My 23-year-old son calls either me or my wife every day. I know how special that is, and I’m so grateful!
I often think of my mom as the most important person in my life because there was so much love and so much brokenness that I see now she couldn’t fix. But then I just felt a lot of hurt I hadn’t cleared out, so even though I longed for her love, I couldn’t make myself vulnerable to her. Edie made herself vulnerable and I had the privilege and the healthiness to be able to be there for her. I see now I blamed my mom when it wasn’t her fault. But I also know I only could see that after she died. I needed the space to see everything.
If you can make yourself vulnerable to your mom in ways that fill you both, I say do it. There is still time. And believe me, you will be glad you did.
Reading this felt like I was water on sand ebbing and flowing, just like life. It was a beautiful sensation. As always your writing gets to the heart of life. Thanks!
Betty! You are so kind and what a lovely lyrical description. Glad you are here.
These beautiful timeless moments, it’s cellular, it’s deep and profoundly human.
yes, cellular is the perfect word for it.
This is writing.
Great use of real art for illustrating a story. Properly credited too. Well done! 👏👏👏
Thanks! I have really discovered and enjoyed so many new artists doing this.
This is beautiful. And true. Thanks.
When one daughter moved to Seattle to go to college, the dog and I became so depressed. He curled up and slept outside her bedroom door waiting for her return; I waited for the phone calls that were never often enough.
That daughter's daughter graduated from college last June and our daughter and I commiserated on how our children grow up and leave us. The phone calls are never often enough but the memories of tender connection remain. ❤️
YesJanet! You said it so perfectly. We might never have this kind of deep connection again. You never know so you just have to savor it. I love that she now gets it, too. And i do wish I had let my mother have more of this. It would’ve been an easy gift.
I did not have this closeness with my mother, either, so we savor these connections with our daughters even more. But when the grandkids come, it is truly heaven on earth.
No pressure to my kids, of course. But everyone I speak to is 100% that grandkids are THE BOMB!
One of the saddest things for me is that my grandchildren don't remember many of the times we were together. Luckily, I did take some photos and write a few things down. I think the feelings of the times might still be remembered because they are pretty loving, as much as teens and young adults can be. Being a grandmother for me, has been a much bigger joy than I ever expected. Not the stress of being a parent, just the fun of being together. And all the ages have mostly been great. (Ok, a few pre-teen moments might have been improved on). Seeing yourself in the cycle of life, even when you are close to the end, is so interesting. And to remember the different ages and stages I went through, hopefully allows me to grant grace to them as they become who they are meant to be.
I think, even if they forget details, they remember the vibes and feelings behind your time together. If bring a grandma has brought you joy, chances are you are a good one!
I love your comment about being a part of th circle of life. I think it's okay to be okay with that.
❤️
A beautiful story! You are a writer BECAUSE you were born a writer. Regarding Georgia O’Keeffe, if you’re ever in Santa Fe, New Mexico, there’s a whole museum of her original work. She was and is spectacular. Write on.
I need to go to that exhibit. It's on the list! thank you for reminding me.