I would run my fingers over the fistula in her arm that had allowed her to receive dialysis. Its warmth and the rushing sensation of her blood coursing through her arm would comfort me. Her skin was soft even though it was scarred from needles being forced into her arm hundreds of times. And because the skin on her hands was loose and a little wrinkly, I would smooth them out and wrinkle them again just for fun.
We went to antique shops and consignment stores together and I would look at the old jewelry and antique purses while she shopped for kitchen items and then I'd show her the treasures I'd found. We drove through the hills and country in the spring, summer and fall to see how the flowers and trees changed over the seasons and sang along with Sandi Patty and Barbra Streisand. We would sit in restaurants for longer than our meal should have lasted because we would lose track of time talking.
She told me stories about her years growing up and imitated people with hilarious accuracy. She was silly and she laughed with me. She confided in me and told me secrets that had been confided to her by others. She talked calmly to me and help me find reason and resolution to my problems. She made me feel better about my failures and flaws and encouraged me. She listened intently to my words and I knew the things that I said mattered to her. I felt valued and irreplaceable and she always made me feel special. And I was, because I was her little girl, even at 19 or 23 or 30 years old.
It makes me miss her even more to know that my voice holds shades of her speech within it. But I love the memories that rush over me when my voice slips into hers. I love feeling as if she is still here with me in those moments and I feel the strength of her devotion to me and her love for me as I relive those vivid memory reels in my mind. And I still feel like her little girl, even at 42 years old.
I miss my mommy.
