Moms Red Coat
Does it hurt a lot, Mum?
No, love, just go to bed.
I stared at her, halfin disbelief. She was in painreal, searing painand I could feel it too. At seventeen I truly believed I could give my whole life if it meant she could keep living.
Did you take your tablets? Maybe a mint tea, or just a glass of water? You look terrible.
Everythings fine, my little bird. You should be sleeping, youve got two exams tomorrow. Have you gone over everything?
I gently brushed a damp strand from her forehead. It was a lie, born out of love and the urge to shield her from worry. I already knew the truth, and nothing could fool me. If I were five again I might have believed her and calmed down, but watching that dimming look was unbearable.
Right, I muttered, clenching my teeth.
In the soft glow of the nightlamps orange shade her face looked almost youthful; the fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin gaining a warm, peachtinted hue like autumn leaves. The ache settled somewhere left of her solar plexus, lower in the lung. Trying to look natural, I placed my hand on the blanket right over the spot where a tumour was eating her from inside. I thought about how our bodies are just concentrated energy, all of us made from the same stuff the universe is woven from.
I imagined the illness spilling into my hand as tiny glowing particles, climbing up my arm and lodging deep in my chest. Id take it for myself! Id lock it away in a strong cell and never let it out again! My mums life was infinitely more precious than my own. There was no one on earth kinder, brighter, purerhearted than she was.
She gave me a tender smile, her eyes flickering bright for a heartbeat. I told myself it was my success, that my odd, desperate method was finally working.
So what?
Alright, Im off. Goodnight, Mum.
And sweet dreams, my bird.
Shed come to my prom despite the agony, fixing the little flower charms on my bracelet and whispering, Dont look at me with such sorrow. Ill be at your wedding, I promise.
A month later she was gone. The world shrank to the size of a golf ball, and I was standing on it utterly alone. Cosmic winds tossed me around the corners of existence, as if the house that had always protected me had collapsed, its walls turning to dust blown through every street. For the first time I felt the chilling breath of hurricanes, tornadoes and barren wastelands that Mum had always shielded me from. The ruthless wind of early adulthood kept trying to knock me down with every uncertain step, forcing me to plant my feet firmer, think clearer, set solid goals and never look back.
I went to university in Manchester and moved into the city centre. Dad was still around, paying what he could and trying to be supportive, though by then hed started a new family and his wife wasnt thrilled that he still sent me sizeable sums on top of his alimony. Still, his help was a lifeline and I accepted it gratefully. I spent five years in the halls of residence, only returning to the flat Id shared with Mum during winter breaks and brief summer visits. In the summer I rented a room in town and found parttime work. All my peers went home to their parents, but I had nowhere to go.
Even now its hard being in our house without her. Ive put her photos on every shelf, hung them on the corridor walls and in the kitchen. She watches me from everywhereso alive, joyous, full of spark. It makes the loss a little easier to bear, as if she never truly left, just moved to another town.
The things she gave me for birthdays and holidays are now priceless. I sit on the sofa, surround myself with our photo albums and, out of habit, dial her number. The line rings with a polite female voice: The subscriber is unavailable, please try again later. I stare long at the framed picture on my desk where were together, leaf through the albums hunting for our resemblance, finding new details each time. I pop a cassette into the old player: Mums voice, laughter, song, dancealive and elegant, feminine, gentle. She was beautiful. My mum was beautiful. She was, is, and will always be with me.
Do you remember, Mum, after your divorce we cramped into that tiny room? You gave me two white rats and they multiplied so fast we had to pull their babies out of every nook and sell them to the pet shop, giving away the ones no one wanted.
And remember the ginger neighbourhood cat that brought us a little crowchick? It stayed with us, grew feathers and flew away, but would sometimes push its black head through the window and caw, Caw! Im here! and wed handfeed it bread.
And the time I bit into that picture book as a child, the illustrations of sweets looked so delicious because we had no money for candy That evening you bought us the most beautiful cake ever.
And the day we tore apart Grandmas old wardrobe and found a tiny icon with a photo of the two of us tucked inside? Granddad later said it prayed for us every night
You know, Mum, how often as an adult I walk past shop windows and, spotting something cute, I think, Shed love that. Yesterday I saw a sleek red coat in a display and instantly imagined you beaming over it. You always loved red and clothes that hugged the waist. Now I buy those things for you in my dreams, taking you on shopping trips, splurging on everything youd have wanted but could never afford while you were alive.
Artist André Con
You gave me so much, with a love so boundless it still lives inside me, reminding me that only your physical shell has faded, while your spirit soars above the clouds, watching over me, whispering the right answers. I still feel your support, and it gives me strength to keep going, to find joy in each new day. Sometimes it gets so heavy, Mum, Im seized by a wild, unbearable urge to cling to you, to feel your scent and warmth again so much that I want to scream with longing. In those moments I swear I see you clearly: your face, smile, hair, hands, the silkthin scarf you used to wear, even the faint trail of your perfume. Suddenly I understand youre still here, your love still protecting me, helping me move forward. You were always proud of me, even when there seemed no special reasonjust because I was your daughter.
Every weekend I remind my husband:
Call your mum, ask how shes doing, if shes alright.
He wasnt used to it at first; for him parents are a given, always nearby, ready to help.
When we visit his parents, I always bring a gift for his mother and persuade him to give it to her on my behalf. Shes embarrassed but touched, not used to her grownup sons care. It warms my heart. Shes his mum, just as irreplaceable as you once were to me. I never pried into her heart or tried to replace you, but one day I asked her advice about a lingering health issue and she was horrified, exclaiming:
Why didnt you tell me sooner? Why keep it hidden?
I didnt want to bother you with my troubles.
What trouble? Youre like a daughter now, and Im your mum. Your own mum may be gone, but Im here!
I wept remembering her words. After years of deep loneliness, I finally had someone I could truly call mum. I became her daughter, yet no one will ever call me my little bird again. And thats fine.
The word mum is so shortjust four letters, two of them the samebut it holds the most fundamental meaning for any human being.
