It's here again

 May was a festive month when I was growing up.

For my first 10 years, I lived with my mother in my grandparents' home, then the house my aunt and uncle owned, then back to my grandparents' again. But in 1952, Mom remarried, much against the rules of a church that didn't care about her happiness or her mental well-being. Thank heaven she had the courage to buck that medieval system and marry my stepfather, Martin, who loved her unconditionally and gave me the first security I'd ever known.

He built us a house, a little, two-bedroom ranch and, again for the first time in my life, I had my own bedroom, lovingly painted pale blue by a man who always went the extra mile to make me happy.

The biggest beneficiary of that house, though, was Mom.

She took to the house like a mother bird her nest. She selected furniture with warm finishes, painted her kitchen cabinets a bright yellow, lined inside with red. Many happy hours were spent at the kitchen table, and her spoon collection now hangs on the wall in mine. She chose a soft green for the living room and a neutral beige for the bedroom across the hall she shared with Dad. She planted flowers, decorated lavishly for each holiday and kept our house spotless, warm and welcoming for the countless relatives and friends who knocked once and then opened the front door which was never locked, ready for a few hours of Mom's hospitality.

She never spoke ill of anyone, even when it might have been justified. I never heard her raise her voice, including to me, even when she might have jarred me into listening to her sage advice and avoiding some mistake I was about to make. I loved her without reason or thought. 

She was just Mom...Mommy when I was little, then just plain Mom.

Her loss was incalculable. She was only 48 when the first breast cancer struck. I was just 23. Then, just when we were rejoicing over the five-year-mark of no recurrence, it was back and this time there was no fighting it. By the time she was 56, she was gone, mercifully, I believe, to be free of the excruciating pain she endured in the last year of her life.

Mothers' Day has always belonged to her, even when I became one myself. For more years than I can count, I couldn't go near the Mothers' Day card section in a store. No one for whom to purchase a card, just sadness.

Still it rolls around every year, bringing memories of Mom's laugh, her contagious smile, her courage, her warmth and compassion and her abounding love. I can say it now without tears...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You are missed more than I can say.