I Remember
Published on
By Livia G. Gerardi
I don’t remember many of my mom’s birthdays. In fact, I didn’t even remember that we went to Mexico once to celebrate. I didn’t remember that she would be turning forty-three this year. I don’t remember her voice or all of her face. I don’t remember much.
But I remember her.
I remember how she almost always smiled with her teeth. I remember how she had a special spot on the couch and never let anyone else lay on it when she was around. I remember the video she would play on her phone for me as she brushed my hair. I remember her teaching me how to raise my eyebrow. I remember when she drove to my school with a half an hour heads up to bring me some matching outfits for my duet in the talent show. I remember when she accidentally started clapping during my remembrance day performance and then made me repeat it at home so she could clap properly. I remember when she showed up to my school assembly in a wheelchair because she knew I was getting an award that day.
I remember how she jokingly told me that if she found out she was pregnant with more than one baby she would pick me up from school, and then the defeat on her face when my sister and I walked through the door with my father laughing behind us. I remember when she made me promise that I would use the new expensive creams I had begged her to buy for my skin, I also remember that she never even got upset when I didn’t. I remember how she would sit through the music videos I made her watch with nothing but a positive attitude. I remember how she and my dad would watch TV shows at night time and how she always caught me trying to sneak down to watch with her. I remember the cheek kisses and the hand holding.
I remember the line of stitches across the top of her head after her surgery. I remember the tears running down her face when she told me and my sister she had cancer. I remember the happiness in her eyes when she told us she was pregnant. I remember when she would sing “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” in the car with me, how she claimed the song described her. I wish she was right.
I don’t remember much, but I remember enough.
I know the agony I felt writing every sentence, knowing that I’ll never make another memory with her. But I also know the joy I felt in those moments. I know how happy my mom would be that we’ve found a way to continue to live our lives and I know the relief she would feel if she knew she spent every day of her life making the lives of others better.
Happy birthday, mom, I wish you had lived to see forty-three.