The things she will not know

When my mother first died, I thought only in the abstract about the future. I couldn't fathom a real future without her in it, and all I had were vague conjectures and assumptions. I lamented the typical milestones that had not yet come to pass. She won't see me marry the love of my life. She won't see me become a mother.

At the time, nothing yet had happened to me without her, except for her death. And in the insane, rocking grief of those first weeks, I actually found myself upset and wanting to talk to her about it. Someone would say something ludicrous in an attempt to comfort me after her death and I'd think, Wait until she hears this. The people from my past who came crawling out for her funeral inspired a lot of, Wait until I tell her who I saw! This made me feel crazier, of course.

For the most part, I could only imagine the things I would experience without her. Sure, I would probably get married, but it wasn't certain yet. I hope to have children, but who knows? These were abstract. Now, there are real experiences. And she hasn't seen them.

Last week I learned that I was accepted into a graduate school. This is a program I have been looking at for 6 years. I spoke with her about it many times, actually. She encouraged me to apply, and I even started to once. It just wasn't the right time. Yet now it is and she can't see it.

I bought a new home. With my new husband. Every day he amazes me, the trust and love I have for him amazes me, and I just want to call her and tell her. I want to tell her I understand how she felt about my father, finally. I want to talk about paint colors and curtains with her.

My mother would take great joy in the simple things I was doing. I would tell her about a date, or a class I was taking, and she wanted to hear the minutiae. Sometimes after a really wonderful day I want to throw myself down on the sofa and call her.

I'm writing this and my husband is practicing the cello, and I know she loved that he played. I know that she would be delighted to know that I eventually lived in a house of music again, after growing up in one.

When I graduated from high school and college, my mother was there to see the ceremony. She was tickled over it. At the time, I thought it was silly. I rolled my eyes a lot. Since applying to grad school sometimes I can't stop thinking about the seat unfilled for me at commencement, the only person in my life who I expected to appreciate the mundane, even as I ridiculed her enjoyment.