48 Birthdays

 

I have a birthday this month, # 67. Recently, I thought about my Mama. She was only 64 when she went home to be with Jesus. I miss her more than just about anything. 

It occured to me that Mama has missed 48 of my birthdays. She never saw me finish high school. She never saw me marry. When I went to Europe, she was not there to see me off, not once but twice. Nor was she there to greet me when I came home.

When my children were born, Mama was not there, nor was she when my granddaughter was born. Mama never rocked my sons or granddaughter. Mama never told them stories about my childhood nor read them stories from books. She never sang Hobo Bill, The Railroad Bum to them, nor Rock-a-Bye-Baby. 

When I needed advice or was in pain, she wasn't there. When I needed prayer, she wasn't there. When my husband died, I wanted my Mama but she wasn't there. My aunt and uncle stepped into as surrogate parents when Mama died but there has always been a hole where she stood. 

Mama never saw me go to college. She never read my articles in the college paper, never read the writing I did in other areas. She never witnessed my graduating from college. The first of her descendants with a degree and she missed it. Magna Cum Laudy, Mama! Can you believe it? I have as brief image formed in my mind of her standing in the audience smiling broadly. It isn't real. She wasn't there. And there is an echo of her voice from a long time ago where she said, "My girl can do anything." 

48 birthdays, Mama. So long, so very long, Mama.