Kirabo Turinawe
Another year, another Mother’s day gone by without my beloved mother.
As I scrolled through the various Mother’s day graphics and status updates on Whatsapp and Instagram, I couldn’t help but feel a tightening of the chest.It’s been nearly a decade, one would think it would be easier to get through today without tears welling up in my eyes.
Interestingly enough, the inaugural Mother’s day was by founded by Anna Jarvis(1864-1948) in a bid to immortalise her mother who had passed on to the next realm. It has since been mostly commercialised, but the thought to honour the woman that brought life to you on earth is one of the highest that one can aspire to.
Today, I think of the woman my mother was-the mother, sister, friend, aunt, businesswoman, wife for all seasons. She was a disciplinarian able to turn whatever item was in her hand into a flying saucer that would set her offspring right in no time. Yet, her laughter rang loud and filled the room, much like her warmth and love of people.Her wit was unmatched; every conversation sprinkled with humour and some jabs(blows of love as we fondly called them).
Mum was creative with her hands; she knitted, embroidered, baked, decorated all while she sang in her lovely soprano. I often joke that if I was even half as beautiful as my mother was, I wouldn’t have stayed on the shelf as long as I have. At least she left me with her good legs.
My mother was a fierce, resilient organiser..boy, did she get the job done! Ofcourse she wasn’t without her flaws, as she was only human, but maybe we’ll leave those for another day.
I’m probably still surviving on the prayers and good will she sent out. On this mother’s day, I miss her messages letting me know that she was praying for me, often accompanied by a timely, encouraging Bible text, reminding me to count my blessings in the tightest spots. Even when she was at her weakest, she always reached out to those she loved to let them know she had them at heart.
Who knows, maybe the next decade will get easier..or it will still bring cyclical pangs of grief. I can’t help but miss what could have been, especially with the different faces of adulthood. The many questions I have that I know she’d have had some practical answers to, the fact that she won’t meet the grandchildren, the missed journeying together through life.
To the other motherless daughters(and sons), we can only be grateful for the precious time that the Big Man upstairs gave us with our mothers and continue to honour them in the best ways we can. For what is grief, if not love persevering?
A few lines from one of my favourite poems, “Death is Nothing at All” by Henry Scott Holland read:
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me.
Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
I am but waiting for you.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
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