Today--October 27th--the worst day of the year, I’m going to play a game.
I’m going to pretend I get my Mom back for one day.
Actually, I play this all of the time, and I have a nightmare about it at least once a week, but today I really thought about it.
First off, I’d cook you something. Something delicious and decadent and totally wonderful. When you got sick, you lost your appetite. You lost your ability to enjoy a meal with your family and I always hated that was another thing that got taken from you. I would make you Beef Wellington because you loved that. And one of the first real meals I ever cooked for you was that and a homemade mushroom bisque. You said you liked it--maybe you were being a kind, but I thought it was good.
Then we’d play a game. Double-solitaire. Which is a really stupid game, but when we played it our way it was fun and I loved that scurrying play to the finish. We would not play Scrabble because you would beat me--you were the true wordsmith of the family.
And then, like I was five again, I’d say, “Mom! Look what I made!” And I would introduce you to your grandchildren. And I know a day isn’t enough time, but you would be able to see how smart and kind they all are. You’d notice that Stevie LOOKS JUST YOU which you would deny out loud but secretly covet because you could even see it. You would see Matty and know that as old of a soul that Stevie is, Matty is a young one--forever a little boy who loves his dog and his little sister and isn’t at all embarrassed by that.
And Amy. Oh, how you would love Amy. And you would know. You would just know.
And Jessie needs a grandmother to spoil her and keep me from losing my mind with her. She would entrance you with her smile and personality, and you wouldn’t be able to get mad at her when she poured paint on your carpet.
And no matter what time of year it was--I don’t care if it was June--I would set up a Christmas tree and make Sean string lights through the palm trees. I would fly Wendy and your other two grandchildren in, Dad, your Dad, Uncle Norm, Gram and Gramp--anyone who is left and we would have a Christmas dinner and eat again around a huge table laughing and taking a million pictures. I’d make you pecan pie. (I put chocolate in mine and it’s really good.)
I’d wear your shoes. I’d play Neil Diamond. Grandpa would recite poetry from his amazing memory.
I would ask you to wear extra perfume so that it lingered on everything you touched and when you were gone again, I’d bury my face into the blanket and recall you.
I’d hold you.
I would be held.
And to those who would say that a day wouldn’t be enough, I’d risk it.
Because this day is long.
This day is way too long.