I miss mom.
I miss her enthusiasm. Her optimism. Her sass. Her love. Her steadfast efforts to keep us connected to our Chinese traditions.
She was hopeful. And she was curious and eager.
Whether it was new food, new friends, new sights, new sounds...just about anything, her heart and her mind were wide open to connecting and making each adventure, large or small, part of her life's experience.
One of my favorites things was to share these moments with her - whether it was taking her to a new restaurant or an art museum - I loved seeing the world through her eyes. She asked fun questions and her joy was infectious.
Art museums in particular were always a good time with mom, but often had a dash of stress to keep things interesting. She had a funny urge to make the art experiential whether the artist intended or not. This meant us often whispering red-faced apologies to anxious staff eyeing my mom who was too close, or god forbid, had even touched the art. But it was just her way. She was so swept up in the moment, so engaged, she wanted physical contact.
I'll miss the feeling of slight surprise upon learning about yet another stranger who helped my mom. I had always been so wary of her easy trust in her fellow humans, but she nearly always picked right. The kindness of strangers was a natural part of her life.
A classic mom story happened one of the last times she dropped by our house. We live on a long, narrow, winding street where turning around can be tricky. She drove past our house and needed to turn around. I'm not sure why but she didn't pick a driveway, she just picked a spot in the road between parked cars. Well, she got stuck. Back and forth, back and forth she maneuvered her little car. She just couldn't do it. She was so flustered and then a car showed up and was waiting for her to complete the u-turn so he could pass. The driver, witnessing her dilemma, tried to help by directing her. Finally she got out of her car and asked if would get behind the wheel to make the u-turn for her. And he did. And then they were both on their way.
My mom was laughing so hard as she told me this tory. She was just about crying. She said she was embarrassed and laughing the entire time she was trying to make that u-turn. I asked if the other driver was mad she was taking so long and blocking him. She said no, he was laughing too.
I like to think that people sensed her natural joy and humor, and gravitated to it.
I miss laughing with her. I miss being able to call my mom with good news. I miss her being there and giving me advice if I or my kids felt ill. I'll miss her annual turnip cakes for Chinese New Year, and winter melon soup for Winter Solstice. I'll miss teasing her when she would tell us how full she was while putting another chopstick full of food into her mouth. I'll miss hearing her call me by my Chinese name and asking where I am and if I've eaten.
I miss the way she loved my kids so fierce. I miss sending photos and videos of them to her. Only she shared my mama-level enthusiasm and infatuation with my babies.
I'll miss bearing witness to the special connection that she had with Luca. For seven years, he was the little prince in her life she got to dote on with all the love a PoPo can muster. They created so many memories together. I'm grateful some were made when he was old enough to remember.
Maybe a week or two after mom passed, Luca said, "I wish PoPo met Chiara." I was confused and responded, "But she did. Don't you remember?" Luca then clarified that he wishes they met when Chiara was old enough to remember.
So I think what I'll miss and regret the most is the future and relationship she never had with Chiara. The second grand baby she craved so much and had plans to hold close and watch grow. Before Mom's diagnosis, several weeks into quarantine, she kept saying how regretful she was to be missing out on Chiara's baby months. We would FaceTime with her nightly and I held the camera up close to show her Chiara's rapidly plumping limbs and rubber band wrists. "I just want to feel her skin, give her a squeeze," she would say. She ached to hold this baby and I reassured her there would be time.
Toward the end she told me she wasn't afraid of dying but her one big regret was leaving us, her daughters and her grandkids. Not seeing them grow. I know she could feel my sadness. She told me not to worry about her. I told her, "How could I not? You're my mom." I'm not worried anymore but I'm so, so sad. Also though I'm grateful she is no longer suffering. And so grateful for the 70 years she was on this planet and the 43 years I got to be her daughter. I'm the lucky one. Thank you Mommy. I love you always.
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