They Never Met

“Dad, who is this?” Ian pointed to a photo of a woman.

“It’s my mom.”

We had stopped at Mom’s as we took James home from the hospital, just two days after the c-section that brought him into the world. The terminal emphysema that kept my mother inside her home meant she hadn’t been able to visit the hospital and meet her newest grandchild.

I laid James in her lap and watched the joy shine through Mom’s eyes as she saw him for the first time. We didn’t stay long, and I’ll always be grateful to Sandi for that brief stop.

Little more than a year later, I received a phone call, urging my presence at Mom’s and with speed, but I was too late. When I arrived at the hospital bed in her living room, she had already passed. Knowing how much I’d miss the face I’d seen all my life, I tried to soak up her image, small and empty, now that her spirit had departed. I leaned over, placed my lips on her cold forehead and wished I’d kissed her more often when her brow was still warm with life and love.

After the funeral, I remarked to a friend that Mom had no quality of life and that her passing was a blessed release. But inside me, a little boy remains and he’s crying for his mommy.

He gave me a grave look. “I got news for you, mate. That doesn’t go away.”

He was right. It’s been 14 years, and the sense of loss is familiar, sometimes sharper than at other times, but it’s always there.

“What was she like, Dad?” Ian persisted and I tried to satisfy his curiosity. He had never met his grandmother. He was born 11 weeks after my mother had passed away.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.