An Unexpected Visit from Mom

Mom stopped by the other night.

Josy and I were in a house somewhere along the west side of Hood Canal, packing our things. We were about to move. We were either relocating or just gathering everything up after a long weekend.

For some reason, I needed to go to go uphill through the town. To get something out of the car or pick up something at the store. Josy continued putting things in our bags while I headed out.

The small town was laid out not unlike the hillside smattering of homes, hotels and roads near the ferry landing on Orcas Island. Our house was at the bottom of the hill, near the water.

I walked outside and up the steep roadway. Not far ahead in the distance, just beyond the shops and cafes that lined the street, and a forested hillside immediately beyond, the Olympic Mountains rose high in the air. This was one of those quaint towns that had both sea-level waterfront and a mountain range in its backyard.

The weather was great. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm. One of those picture-perfect Pacific Northwest days that Seattlites long for during those long, grey, wet winter days and relish with zeal in the summertime.

As I passed by an outdoor café with umbrellas shading small round tables with bar stools, I saw Mom and Dad. They had decided to surprise us. Our eyes met and they both had big smiles on their faces.

I walked up to greet them, a feeling of happiness rising up at the unexpected visit. We shared the moment with big grins all around.

A second passed and I realized this must be a dream. After all, Mom had died just over a year ago.

She looked fantastic. Like she did the year before she got sick. I told her so and she just smiled.

I looked at Dad and he was smiling too. As I turned my eyes back to Mom, she was no longer there.

I glanced back at Dad. Instantly, we both knew that Mom wasn’t here and yet had been here.

The main feeling at this moment was not one of sadness. Instead, there was an overriding sense of warmth tinged with a hint of longing.

It was so nice to see her.

Not long after moving to The Netherlands, I’d get the impulse every now and then to give Mom a call. As if time had gone by and somehow I’d forgotten to pick up the phone and check in with her.

This cognitive dissonance always surprised me. The sense, all at the same time, that I needed to give her a call and yet I knew she’d been dead nearly a year.

For months, the urge to call her would hit me. Not unlike other times when I’d lived overseas and would make the trans-Atlantic update every week or so.

And the realization she was dead would always follow, by roughly a second, the desire to call. There would be this fleeting moment in which I missed her, was looking forward to catching up and didn’t yet know she wasn’t there anymore.

While reality would hit me with sadness, the brief surreality in which Mom was still alive would leave a lingering aftertaste of happiness.

I would come to treasure these moments, despite their reminders of grief.

Nowadays, about five months after the anniversary of her death, those moments happen less and less often.

But her surprise appearance the other night reminded me how much I loved her. And how much I love her still.