I Don’t Have a Mom
But I wish I did
When I was first married I went to the grocery store. I was in the infancy of being a newlywed. I know that sounds redundant. But it reiterates I was a babe in the woods, a deer in the headlights. I couldn’t wait to do seriously married things, like make a delicious dinner.
I stood in the grocery store baffled by the meat choices before me.
An older woman who seemed to be a gift from God suddenly appeared. She was perusing the items like a veteran. I’ve never been accused of being shy, I sought her advice.
“Do you know what kind of steak I should buy to make dinner?” I ask.
She senses my absolute confusion is more than the average girl.
“Honey,” she says. “Where is your mother?”
“In heaven,” I say.
Once those words came out of my mouth, you have never seen an old woman move so fast. She rifled through that beef like a wrangler. And then she looked at me with unforgettable compassion.
“Here you go,” she said. “This will be perfect.”
Even today, tears crowd my face at the memory. Far more than they did that day. Because I was so young I didn’t understand the depth of my reality or the sadness on her face.
