Mother’s Day memories: 5 writers remember tender moments with Mom
A connection that transcends language. A solid, steady lifeline on speed dial. A tender care that doesn’t fade, even as the decades pass. In this special Mother’s Day collection, five writers who have contributed to The Home Forum honor their mothers and mother figures, and the myriad ways they love.
A call for comfort
It was the middle of the night when red and blue lights flashed behind me. Two police cars appeared. I wasn’t speeding, and I hadn’t run a light – but my heart pounded anyway. Without thinking, I called the one person I always relied on in moments like this. My mother.
Why We Wrote This
From tucking sweet notes in lunch boxes to offering patient counsel during tough times, mothers and mother figures play a deeply foundational role in our lives. Here, a handful of writers for The Home Forum honor the women who shaped them.
She answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep.
“Mom, stay on the line with me,” I said.
“I’m here. Go ahead.”
I set the phone on the passenger seat as the officers approached. I’d been driving home after a late night at the newspaper where I worked, exhausted and not expecting any trouble. But the officers took their time, circling my car, asking unnecessary questions.
When they finally let me go, I picked up the phone with shaky hands.
“They’re gone,” I said.
I heard her exhale. “All is well,” she reassured me, her voice steady. “Just like I knew it would be.”
It wasn’t just that night. My mom was always the first one I called with good news, bad news, and no news at all, sometimes multiple times a day. When I was growing up, she instilled in me the belief that I was safe and capable and protected.
Though she’s no longer here, I can still hear her voice clear as crystal in my mind: You’ll get through this. There’s always a way. All things are possible. Even now, her words console me and still hold true.
– Courtenay Rudzinski
A quiet connection
It was that hushed time between when we cooked dinner and when we sat down to eat. The west-facing windows welcomed warm light into the kitchen, and the cooing of the mourning doves filled the silence.
We were the grands: she, my mother’s mother; and I, her daughter’s daughter. There was a grand gap between us on the couch that could have been bridged by words, if we had only known then how to speak each other’s mother tongues.
In the absence of words there were sounds: steel knives striking cutting boards, hot water bubbling over fire, and the range hood blaring as we created the Japanese curry and tempura and gyoza and yakisoba that became symbols of solace for a woman far from her homeland. We wove in between each other like dancers as she taught me how to maneuver around the kitchen and nourish others, as she did for me.
Whatever delicacies she pulled out of her recipe book were always so delicious that I would say she should be on “Iron Chef.”
It was because of our comfortable silence that I learned to coexist, to live, to love, beyond words. Because that is what my grandmother did when she moved to the United States, without knowing English, to raise me, care for me.
Perhaps we did come to speak the same language, after all.
– Elica Sue
Becoming beloved
I didn’t grow up on Prince Edward Island, or have red hair, or crave puffed sleeves, or speak to strangers in monologue responses about the rhapsodies of spring, but I was able to imagine those things because of two women: Lucy Maud Montgomery, the author of “Anne of Green Gables,” and my mother, who first read Montgomery’s novel to me when I was 8 years old.
My mother read me many books, but I remember this one so well because of how much I loved Anne’s character and for the way my mother’s voice brought her to life. Anne’s dramatic lines weren’t just read; they were performed. Matthew and Marilla’s baffled responses to Anne’s ceaseless questions weren’t merely described; they were delivered, accents and all. “What was your favorite part?” my mother would ask when we’d finish a chapter, and I’d squeeze her hand and think, this.
Last month, my own daughter, almost 8 years old, plucked “Anne of Green Gables” off the bookshelf, and we’ve been reading it together, word by delightful word. Every time I finish performing one of Anne’s monologues or find again the accent I try to keep consistent for Marilla, I steal a glance at my daughter. I think about how her joy in that moment is the near end of a thread that began far before me, with my mother, the two of us lying side by side in bed, learning about what it means to be a little girl who is loved.
– Emily Brisse
Circle of service
My mom’s superpower? Her loving presence.
When I was a child, my mom worked the second shift as an industrial nurse. Despite her late work hours, she awoke every day at 6:30 a.m., made me a poached egg and buttered toast, and sat beside me on the piano bench while I practiced scales and sonatinas. After school, Mom drove me to ice-skating and swimming lessons. Although I ate dinner with my dad, Mom’s love was always palpable, from the Jell-O and tossed salads she’d prepared for us to the sloppy Joes waiting in the skillet. My favorite part? Mom’s reheating instructions, accompanied by a string of X’s and O’s and her signature sign-off, “With special love.”
Today, Mom is 90 years young. Although our roles have changed – I now cook and deliver some of Mom’s meals – she still finds a way to look out for me. As I say goodbye after my weekly visits, Mom trails me to the door of her condo, reminds me to drive carefully, and watches until I back my car onto the street. Never mind that I have 40 years of driving experience. Never mind that Mom’s driveway is short and easy to navigate. Without fail, Mom lingers, waving until I’m out of sight.
Today, when I check my phone, there’s a voicemail: “Just returning your call, sweetheart. Love you. Bye-bye.”
My heart squeezes.
Mom is still here for me, teaching me how to love.
– Stefanie Wass
Tender words
I struggled with spelling. So much that I came to dread Monday afternoon language arts class through middle school. One particularly dismal November Monday, I misspelled 28 out of the 30 words on our pretest. Ms. Forshey said she’d never had anyone spell that many words wrong.
So my weeks revolved around learning to spell the words correctly by Friday’s test. My mom would sit with me every night.
My mom is a special education teacher. All day long, her own students ask her questions about their own spelling tests, math equations, and biology worksheets. But still she’d work with me, sometimes for an hour or more, beneath the light in the dining room.
“Do you hear the rhythm of the word when you spell it out loud?”
“Mountain?”
“m-O-u-N-t-A-i-N. It’s like you’re climbing over mountains. Up and down. You try.”
I remember writing out “appearances,” dressed in my wizard robe before trick-or-treating, as Mom supervised in her clown costume. Or repeating “reminiscent” over and over again one snowy Friday morning during a two-hour delay, as the plows worked outside.
Even then, I recognized her uncommon resolve, the attention she gave to my education, and her forbearance in coaching a frustrated child racking his young mind, trying to understand what letters went where. I never felt like my struggle was a burden. I felt so safe and loved with her patience. I still do.
– Noah Davis
