My mom loved music. She loved to dance. She was great at both.
She also loved to cook. She may not have actually loved it but she was good at it.
My dad loved her spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, Thanksgiving meals, Chowder, clamcakes, fried chicken, pretty much everything.
I loved hearing her sing Patsy Cline, Brenda Lee, music from the 50’s and early 60’s. To me she sounded so beautiful. I liked to watch her knit. The clack, clack of the needles was soothing and watching her long fingers work made me sleepy.
For a few years she was addicted to Donkey Kong and Super Mario. I would laugh when I could hear the video game music at 2:00 a.m.
I didn’t know back then it was a symptom of illness just like when she locked herself in her room for weeks and didn’t talk to anyone. I was too young to know.
I loved her so much and I didn’t help her, I didn’t know. I was so self-involved dealing with my own crap I couldn’t see how much pain she was in.
I listened to her scream every night. I changed her sheets when she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. And I was angry because I was working over 50 to 60 hours a week. Time I could’ve been spending with my mom while she was alive. Instead I took care of her during her worse moments. My siblings were no where to be found until she actually passed.
I loved her so much the pain is enormous. Eight years later.