House on the Rock

I think back to Mother’s Day a year ago. We ate ham and angel food cake on a Sunday afternoon, everyone clad in pink and green, taking selfies and playing CodeNames while fighting to keep the mothers out of the kitchen. The premise of the game is quite simple: hopeful participants come up with a one-word clue that could categorize multiple words on the board for their teammates to guess. I’d say “travel for three,” hopeful that my team would pick hotel, suitcase, and fly rather than Tokyo, tourist, and trip.

The sunshine gleamed through living room blinds and we curled up like cats in the patches of its light. Mom said, after much deliberation, “sad for two,” and we frantically searched for two words that we knew she would certainly pair with sad. Blue seemed quite likely, as did tissue; but none more obvious than winter — the time of year she dreaded most, desperately working to bookend with beach trips. 

We had no way of knowing, at that time, that our beautiful mother would never have to face winter again. We had no idea that that would be the last time we’d huddle on the floor together, laughing that no one could keep up with what we called “Cam logic,” when my little brother said bird to categorize scorpion because, of course, birds eat scorpions. 

We had no idea that Mother’s Day would never look the same again. Never again would I scribble the middle line of a cardstock haiku: There’s no mom better than you.  Never again would we smash together for selfies on the couch, secretly hoping we got all our mom’s genes because she never seemed to age but rather, to glow a little more each year.

We had no idea that if we had to find a code name for the remainder of that year, we’d probably pick something like suffering for seven, pairing it with cards like cancer, stroke, seizures, ambulance, hospital, hospice, and death. We had no idea that every Mother’s Day from that moment forward would bring with it a painful sting that makes us long for it to be over — remembering the near-perfection of the mom we were given, but only for a moment, because it hurts too much to linger. 

There was no way to know that her strategic “sad for two” would be the final CodeName clue she’d give on the earth-side of eternity. The hole she left behind is enormous, as I realize this year — like other years, but with greater intensity now — that she was one of the very best parts of our world.

That’s the code name I’ve been reserving just for her, for this dreadful and delightful day when we celebrate the God-given gift of mothers: best, for one. Without hesitation — it’s Mom.