A generation passes

For most of the part of my childhood that I can remember, I didn't have a dad. Ed, whom Mom married when I was sixteen or so, arrived too late to ever really be my father.

Mom was my only parent.

And now she's gone.

In my family, the generational clock just ticked forward a notch. I have no parents, no grandparents; I am the senior one of my generation.

I can't honestly remember the last time I consulted Mom for advice, but it was always nice to know that she was there. I took her for granted in the way that we always do our parents; they're fixtures in our lives, people we can count on.

And now she's gone.

Tonight, I am very sad. I expect I will be sad off and on for some time. Life will resume its normal pace. I'll think of her and talk of her, and most of the time it'll be with laughter and love and the occasional "you know Mom" shake of the head, but sometimes it'll be with sadness, because I won't be able to call her the next day.

Tonight, though, it's almost all sadness. As awkward as hugging her always felt, I sure wish I had done it more.

Hug your parents while you can. It ought to be a rule somewhere.

I know there's so much funny and loving and good and frustrating and silly and powerful and just plain boring stuff to remember about her, as there is about each of us, but I can't get to those things right now. I can feel only the sadness.

I suppose that's natural and healthy, but it sure does suck.

Damn, Mom, I miss you.