A Mother's Love

I walk outside, the frigid morning air tickling my nose. It's the middle of January, I remember. The sun hasn't risen over the horizon just yet, leaving the sky a lavender purple with orange specks. I sit on my porch step, gazing at the small field of wheat that surrounds my isolated farmhouse. I hear the sound of the mourning doves singing their melancholy tune. A woodpecker too, in the distance. I can also hear the creek water rushing before the tree line ahead of me; the peaceful sounds of the forest almost ease my mind. A cool breeze sweeps through the field, as I clutch my mug of fresh coffee. I feel her in everything.

The funeral was over two weeks ago, but the unbearable pain fails to diminish. As I sit on my porch, remembering her, I wrap myself just a little tighter in her favorite cardigan. Mom's favorite cardigan. I look out onto the field beyond me unable to shake the thought that she's no longer here. I remember everything about her. Her favorite coffee cups, one being held in my hands right now. The way she talked; unafraid to tell the truth but nonetheless there to be supportive. Her comfort. Despite the situation, Mom always made the pain go away. Just being in her arms made the tears vanish, as well as the hurt. Hugging her, I would always take in her smell. God, her smell. The cardigan still smells like her, which both comforts me and hurts me as I tighten it around my chest. It feels almost like it's her who is hugging me, not a piece of clothing. Just almost. I look up once again. I feel her in everything.

I remember the letter she had written me before she died; she talked about how the sun would still shine, how nature would continue its cycle, how time would go on. Again, I hear the rushing creek in the distance as well as the doves. The creek continues streaming down the bank, just like Mom said it would. And the doves continue to sing their sad song. What do the doves have to mourn? I think. Surely, they don't know the pain I feel right now. Or maybe they do. Or maybe, just maybe, they're mourning for me. Thinking back to the letter, Mom said she would visit me after she passed, but I figured she had just said that to make me feel like she wouldn't be gone forever. I listen to the sounds of the creek, the doves, and the wheat field I look upon. I feel her in everything.

Getting up from the porch step, I move over to her favorite rocking chair that she always sat in. I sit down, still holding onto my mug. Although the mug is warm from my coffee, the coldness of the air nibbles at my fingers. I think about how much I miss Mom, and how much I wish it was me that died instead of her. The pain is unbearable. The tears had started to sting my eyes minutes ago, but began streaming down my face when I had tightened her cardigan. I just need one more hug, I had thought, knowing I wouldn't get it. My sobbing and sniffles were not drowned out by the sounds of nature, as I had hoped they would. I wish she was still here. I feel her in everything.

As I wallow in my pain, I ignore how cold and wet both my hands and face are. The internal pain makes the physical pain on the outside feel like nothing but a mere scratch. The heartache is unbearable. The tears refuse to let up, as well as my runny nose. I don't have anything nearby to wipe them with; the sleeve of Mom's cardigan a definite exclusion. I refuse to wash it so her scent can be embedded in the fibers forever. Sacrificing my old band t-shirt, I wipe my face and nose. The stinging intensifies with the mix of salty tears and the winter cold. As I wipe my reddened face, my eyes catch a flicker of white in my peripheral.

I pause, then look to my right. Perched on a dead white oak tree, a small, white barn owl sits staring at me. My tears immediately stop welling in my eyes as I look in awe at the beautiful bird that sits about 50 yards from me. The sun begins peeking over the horizon, illuminating the left side of the owl, as well as its face. I can see my breath in the cold air as it slows. A wave of contentment comes over me as I remember how much Mom loved the owls. We sit, watching each other for a minute or so. I get up and move down to the bottom of the steps, making sure not to lose sight of it. I stop.

"Hi, Mom," I whisper. A few more seconds pass, and with a swift motion of her wings, the barn owl takes off, flying straight in my direction. As the owl passes overhead, the overwhelming smell of Mom lingers, confirming what I thought to be true. Those weren't just words in her letter for my comfort. She meant it, and she visited me just like she said. I turn around, and she's gone. "I love you, Mom," I say, with feelings of healing and happiness starting to grow inside my heart. The beauties of nature from just that morning reminded me of how beautiful Mom was too. Now, I see her in everything.