Mother's Day

Sarah approached Annie’s Florals, the flower shop a few blocks’ walk from the home where she grew up. She first made this walk on Mother’s Day the year that she turned 9. With a pocket full of change that her father supplemented with a $10 bill, it was one of her earliest acts of independence. That first trip became an annual tradition and even today, 35 years later, she never missed a visit.

Sarah gave the old wooden door to the shop a good shove. The humid spring air had caused it to swell. The clang of bells announced her arrival in the store. Someone called out from the back and moments later, Elizabeth, the shop owner’s daughter and a childhood friend of Sarah’s came running up past the counter and immediately swallowed Sarah in a firm embrace.

Elizabeth loosened her grip and looked up at Sarah, pleadingly. “I am so sorry, Sarah, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Especially today.”

Sarah took a step back, as if adding physical distance would give her the emotional space to hold it together. “Thank you. We knew it was coming. But that still doesn’t prepare you for how hard it is when it hits. It’s hard to wrap my head around it most of the time. I almost expect her to be there smiling, ready to receive these flowers when I return.”

“That’s all normal. You need time. She was such a big part of your life. Of all of our lives. I hope we can be there for you the way she always was for us.”

“That’s really sweet. Thank you. I never get tired of hearing kind words about her. It helps to learn what an impact she’s left.”

“Well… never hesitate to reach out. You know we love you. I don’t want to keep you. Give me a second and I’ll run back for your order.”

Elizabeth returned with a large bouquet of pale pink peonies. The large round bulbs were adorned with beautiful deep green leaves of myrtle and ivy, providing contrasts of color and texture. They were Sarah’s mother’s favorite flower and these appeared stolen from a perfect English garden. It was clear that Elizabeth had gone out of her way to select the best peonies the store could stock. Sarah’s entire body felt weak as she considered their meaning. 

Sarah quietly took a deep breath and did her best to summon a few final pleasantries as her eyes welled with tears and her heart swelled with grief.

She began the walk back to her parent’s home, doing her best to distract herself from the emotions that flooded her. It was no use. Feelings poured over her in waves and to manage them would have all of the success of herding cats.

Her grief seemed to work this way. She could be going about her day, feeling as if things were normal when a small reminder would bring her to her knees, unraveling her. She was told this would get better with time, but as long as the world was full of these reminders, she wasn’t sure she could believe that.

Sarah entered the home. It looked just as her mother had left it. It still had her smell. Every home has a scent, an inhalable fingerprint uniquely created by the life that occupies that space. Her mother’s home was dominated by the rose scented soap that she always kept in the bathroom, with hints of freshly dried laundry and the coffee she brewed each morning. To Sarah, it just smelled like home.

The smell flooded Sarah with memories. As she removed her coat and hung it on the hook in the hall, she imagined herself running through the back door returning from school. Her mother greeted her by removing her backpack and asking what felt like too many questions about her day. At the time, this felt like an irritating interrogation and Sarah gave quick answers, eager to shake her mother and hole up in her bedroom. Sarah would give anything to be barraged with those questions right now.

Sarah’s sister, Emily, was scheduled to join Sarah in a few hours. It seemed a fitting day to harvest memories and reminisce as they packed up the house. Emily had a family of her own and her children were probably treating her to undercooked pancakes in bed right now. Perhaps she received her own bouquet of peonies. Until Emily arrived, Sarah was alone in a house that had never felt so empty.

Sarah walked over to the cabinets and found one of her mother’s vases. She went to the faucet to fill the vase and the sound of water coming from that sink reminded her of so many family dinners. Her father was sitting at the table, talking about his day. Her sister was fussing over whatever she was being fed. And Sarah was rushing through her food, eager to get on with her evening. Sarah’s mom stood at that sink, making her way through the mound of dishes their dinner created. Listening to her father, patiently ignoring her sister, and pleading with Sarah to stay at the table a bit longer.

Those moments seemed so plentiful at the time. What 14 year old wouldn’t take them for granted?

Sarah sat at the kitchen table staring through the flowers. She reminded herself that things were not always good. It was easy to remember the good times. But there were reasons she was eager to leave the table or head up to her room after school. Denying that reality wasn’t fair to herself.

The good moments had a way of turning without notice. As a child, Sarah didn’t know any different, though. She assumed her mother’s volatility was normal. Much of the time, she assumed it was her fault. Her unrelenting goal as a child was to bring her mother peace. It was an impossible task.

A child is wired to love and trust their parents. There’s no objectivity, just blind faith. Her mind would do anything to maintain that she was safe in her mother’s care. Even when it betrayed her or led her to dangerous situations.

There were a lot of those, Sarah realized as she tallied them in her mind. Too many instances where she entered a car that her mom was too inebriated to drive. Standing by her mother’s side as she entered screaming matches with neighbors, school administrators, store clerks… anyone that had rubbed her mother the wrong way. Even when Sarah felt physically safe, she was always in danger emotionally.

Yet the community loved her mother. She could alternately be charming, altruistic, and apparently sincere. As president of the school PTA, she was charismatic. Her volatility was mistaken for well intentioned passion. She was great for hiding behind a cause.

The contradictions created a stormy dissonance that would plague Sarah throughout her teen and adult years. Even today, she struggled to work through the conflicting stories she told herself.

She tried talking them through with her sister, Emily. It never ended well. Emily, calm like their father, downplayed the situations that Sarah found most traumatic. Emily clung to her own set of experiences, specially engineered to feed off and fuel Emily’s own brand of insecurities. Despite living together and going through most of the same events, they were shaped by entirely different memories. What started as a happy, nostalgic moment could flip, with each sibling believing the other was gas-lighting them. It left each of them feeling irrational and wrong. Frequently, Sarah got defensive and later regretted the things she said.

Sarah thought about her own temper. Her sister wasn’t the only victim of Sarah’s sharp tongue. Knowing she shared her mother’s internal fire, Sarah never wanted children. She didn’t want to risk repeating the mistakes her mother made. 

She reflected on her last relationship. She dated Adam for 4 years. She hadn’t dated seriously since. Her relationship with Adam started so well, or so she thought. Desperate to break out from her mother’s mold, Sarah over-corrected. She held everything back. She was calm, forgiving, and polite. She shut herself off, becoming everything he wanted. He didn’t mind. In fact, it served him well. With everything that Sarah gave, he took more.

It wasn’t sustainable. Eventually, Sarah woke up. In trying to separate her behavior from her mother’s, she only ended up dating someone just like her. It felt as though she couldn’t get away. The resentment and anger she felt for her mother duplicated. 

Her relationship with Adam ended with a call to the police. So much was said and tempers were so flared that she couldn’t be sure of which of them made the call. It’s quite possible they both did. The police sent her home, suggesting she take a day or two to cool off. She’s been cooling off ever since.

Sarah spent her adulthood fighting so hard for the relationship with her mother that she always longed to have. Sarah reflected on her mother’s last days, Sarah came to her mother’s bedside. She’d bring her favorite magazines. When the nurses were fed up with her mom’s abuse and suggested she needed a feeding tube, Sarah smuggled her mother’s favorite milkshakes into the hospital.

Her mother never thanked her for coming. She never thanked her for the food. She only criticized Sarah for leaving too soon, not showing up, or for bringing Better Homes and Gardens when she was in the mood for Reader’s Digest.

Nothing Sarah did would satisfy her mother. Not in any sustainable way. At best, Sarah would find a temporary peace only to find it erupt over something so trivial it was impossible to foresee. 

With each ungratifying visit with her mother, she grew more bitter, more angry, and more desperate for her mother’s love and affection. With her mother gone, the pull was gone. Left was only the tug of grief, guilt and regret.

Feelings poured into Sarah, boiling, pressurizing and demanding a release. Without thought, Sarah stood up and grabbed the vase. Screaming, she hurled the vase toward the refrigerator. The vase erupted into a shower of broken glass, petals and leaves. Water pooled onto the floor. Sarah fell with it in a fit of sobs and screams.

Today was the first day of the rest of her life.