The First Mother’s Day Without My Mother

I woke up early and went for a walk.

Mother’s Day has looked different over the past few years. As my mother slowly slipped into the quiet, confusing world of memory loss, our visits changed. They became quieter, softer, not celebrations, but rituals. My visits weren’t filled with conversation or laughter anymore. They became offerings of presence, of gratitude, of love.

The woman I knew, strong, witty, determined, loving; a chef, a seamstress, a nurse, a soft caress, a shoulder to help lift the heavy of life, someone to fight with and someone to make up with, a teacher for my love of Jesus, and a companion, had been fading long before her body followed. Still, I visited her. Not because we could talk like we used to, but because she was there. I could still hold her hand. Kiss her forehead. Sit beside her. That alone had become enough.

But this morning, she is not here.

She’s not in her chair. She’s not on the sofa. She’s not in her bed. She’s not eating her oatmeal or shuffling her cards. She’s not there to kiss or tease or quietly sit beside.

And yet I choose to believe that she is everywhere.

As I walked, I felt the ache rise up in me. That hollow feeling of absence. But I kept walking, kept breathing, and riding the wave of grief, slowly something began to shift. My steps grounded me. My breath deepened. I moved from grief to presence. From pain to peace.

Memories surfaced. And yes, tears, too, but not of sorrow. Of love. Deep, natural love. The kind you don’t learn. The kind that lives in your bones. No one teaches you to love like that. It just happens, like breathing. Like the moment a baby is born and reaches to find the warmth and nourishment. No one teaches the baby food comes from this being… It just knows, it’s a knowing that comes from outside…from a sacred place.

As I walked further, I reached a peak that overlooked a lush valley, horses, vineyards, green trees, homes tucked gently into the landscape. It was breathtaking. I realized then how grateful I am that my mother is no longer confined to one chair, one room, one body that could no longer hold her spirit. She is free now.

And then I came upon a row of white roses. The fragrance stopped me. So full. So rich. Roses were her favorite flower. She had a green thumb for them, roses in brilliant oranges, reds, pinks, yellows, and purples would bloom under her care. Even after all these years of her not tending to them, the garden blooms again. As if it remembers her.

My sister recently sent me a picture of them, this year, they are blooming beautifully. So fragrant. So alive. I smiled and whispered, as the roll of white roses intoxicated me with their fragrance “Look how beautiful they are. So white. I give these to you Mami”.

Because even though I know where she is, even though I know she no longer needs the flowers, I offer them anyway. Because white means something different now. It is not emptiness, it is fullness. Presence. Purity. Freedom.

I take walks like this, and they hold me. Sometimes a tear still comes, but more often now it’s just a warmth in my chest.

Because I know, my mother is not just gone. She is everywhere. In the fastness of a hummingbird wings, in a small ladybug, in the breeze, curved into my fathers lines, in my sister’s caregiving, their tears, and in my being…