Mother’s Day Nostalgia: Bracing for Impact

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Each Mother’s Day, I brace for impact.

Not because I am a mother, but because I had a mother.

This week would have been her 84th birthday. She’s been gone now for 16 years, yet my hand still instinctively reaches for the phone to call her.

Soon, Mother’s Day will be here and the world will flood us with reminders—advertisements urging us to cherish our moms. Laughing mothers and carefree, bouncy children frozen in moments of pure joy will fill our screens, emails, and store aisles—everywhere we turn.

Celebrating mothers every year fills me with love and gratitude, but, nostalgia hits me hard. I never fully understood just how hard until a few years ago when Etsy sent an email allowing me to opt out of the relentless reminders and I was, well, relieved.

Oh, yes, please!

It was the first time a company acknowledged that, for some of us, the holiday carries ache as much as affection.

The onslaught of communication overwhelms me, and apparently many more people according to statistics.

In 2024, consumers spent $33.5 billion for Mother’s Day in the United States. Consumer spending places this holiday as the third highest among all holidays. That’s a powerful reason for businesses to focus their efforts on reminding you to love on your mother. Thankfully, some companies acknowledge the potential sensitivity surrounding Mother’s Day and give customers the choice to not receive related marketing materials. Each year, more companies, including major brands like Hallmark, Door Dash, Etsy, Levi’s, Canva, M.A.C. Cosmetics, Uncommon Goods, and Nespresso offer opt-outs to customers. DoorDash reports more than 80,000 consumers opted out in 2022 alone.

I don’t blame the companies. They strategically cater to what society deems dear: a day to honor our mothers. The gesture is aptly universal and wonderful. It appeals in reality or nudges our nostalgia. To some of us, however, even delightful memories can bang our hearts bruised.

My mom passed away—no, wait—she died in 2009. Such a permanent event demands accuracy—a grounded word; a word that, at its mere utterance, slams sorrow into your gut so swiftly and deeply that its impact echoes in your brain stem.

She died all those years ago, yet I still feel her near. Perhaps even more as time passes. I don’t just remember her—I feel her presence.

Triggers—sights, sounds, objects, tastes, smells— jolt me into a specific memory like shooting stars slicing through a blackened sky, whipping my consciousness and forcing me to witness them. Those are the moments I cherish most, when memories arise authentically and pull me closer to her.

I feel her presence…

…when I pass by a bakery and see Buttery Pecan Snowball Cookies, the same kind she loved, baked, and gifted. Of course I buy some. I linger in the bakery sipping coffee and enjoying them in her honor – diet or no diet. The longer I stay, the longer she’s with me. Perhaps it’s absurd that I partake in this ritual, but it makes me feel closer to her.

How can I pass on feeling closer to her?

Is she present in spirit somehow? Does she/would she revel in my effort? Can she hear me?

“I love you and I miss you, Mom,” I whisper to the air.

I feel her presence…

…when a Jim Croce song plays from an unexpected source (I can’t bear to play his songs on purpose) . Whenever I hear one, I’m jolted to my childhood bedroom scene: I’m barefoot, standing on red shag carpet, looking out my bedroom window to the backyard. Jim Croce croons—his music a Mother’s Day gift—to an audience of one. I see Mom lying on her back on an inflatable raft in the swimming pool, her fingertips tickling the water.

Earlier, she declared that she wasn’t going to do anything today—which meant, I realized years later, that perhaps she did too many things, all the things, and needed a day of none of the things. It saddens me to realize—only now—that she had to proclaim it—no, perhaps demand it—on the one day that gave her license to.

But, oh, how beautiful I remember her soaking in the sun like a thirsty wick with her far-out sunglasses and shag haircut accenting her dewy, freckled sun-touched cheeks, her bikini swimsuit framing her she-could-be-a-model figure.

I feel her presence…

…when I decorate the Christmas tree and remember the legendary tree-decorating parties she hosted every year—crafting the very best memories and traditions with a tree too large for the room. We, the adult kids, chaperoned our wee ones up the ladder to hang baubles at the tippy top while Burl Ives sang about Rudolph and his red nose.

I feel her presence…

…when I wrap a present and remember how her creative wrapping with ephemeral, found objects made me covet it more than the present itself.

I feel her presence…

…when I apply lipstick which always makes me remember my teenager-self darting out the front door for a date and her calling out to me from another room, “Don’t forget your lipstick!” To this day, I do not begin my day nor leave my house without applying some type of lip goo.

I feel her presence…

…when I open my office cupboard and see the videotape of my college broadcasting class assignment, in which she starred—shy, but willing—allowing me to film her without stopping, as the assignment required. In one continuous take, she gathered an egg from the refrigerator and then painted a picture of an egg using tempera made from its yolk. Artist, video star, proofreader, confidant—no matter. She supported me and cheered me on in every assignment and endeavor.

And then that reminds me of the time she photographed me for my art class assignment where I had to paint myself into a famous painting. We sat at her dining room table where I posed in her big, floppy wedding hat to create a photo I could paint from. We giggled while perusing her art books and chose a garden party scene on an overlook set in ancient Greece.

And then that reminds me of the time she came to me in my dream the night she died. I was at my home and she was in the hospital. In my dream, I was seated in an outdoor garden restaurant at a black wrought iron table waiting for her. The restaurant was located on an overlook, perhaps in the Alps, and she walked down the open, flowered-lined path towards me. I rose to greet her, but she stopped short, about 20 feet away. She looked younger now, maybe in her early 40s. She tilted her head, stared at me for several seconds, and then simply turned around and walked away —forever.

I don’t know how death works. I only know I felt her pass and that she found a way to say goodbye.

I feel her presence…

…on Thanksgiving day, remembering how she sometimes hosted a guest (someone she knew, but a stranger to our family) who had no where else to go for dinner.

I feel her presence…

…at Christmas…

…when camping…

…when I paint with her paintbrushes…

…when I see the color mauve…

…when I dine at a special restaurant I know she’d love…

…when I see handmade macrame plant hangers like the ones she made that cradled spider plants with baby offshoots sprouting like the 4th of July…

…when I peruse magazines and see black and white kitchens…

…when I see peanut M & Ms—our favorite snack while watching movies on a Saturday night.

I feel her presence at so many other times.

I don’t need a holiday to remember my mother.

But I’m glad there’s a dedicated day to celebrate all mothers. My heart beats a little faster when I think of so many children, young and old, embracing and celebrating their mothers on this special day. How lovely.

I hope those mothers have a day where they do none of the things.

For me?

Ah…I have all those triggers, those shooting stars lighting up my memories.

Happy Mother’s Day.

What things remind you of your mother? I’d truly love to know. 🌷

Love, light, celebration, and for some of us, remembrance~

Deborah