In Her Shoes.

I miss Sunday morning phone calls with my mum.

When I lived on my own in Halifax, it became a regular thing. One of us would call the other every Sunday morning and we would just chat. Conversations could be an hour or hours, about nothing or anything… And they were always free of distraction.

At least that’s how I remember them.

When I moved back to Truro – even though I saw her more often and talked to her more regularly – I feel like something was missing. I no longer had this dedicated, uninterrupted, quality chat with her… A weekly something to look forward to.

What I wouldn’t give for a Sunday morning phone call with my mum today.

​Well, any day, of course… But there’s something about a Sunday morning phone call – with tea and laughter and beautiful nothingness – that would be especially welcomed. 

In a way, it would take me back to a different lifetime. A time when my self doubt was "charming" and wasn't rooted in "how do I move forward without my anchor."

I decided to honour mum this mother’s day by spending the weekend by the ocean. Our mutual happy place.

• I literally walked in her shoes along the beach.
• I breathed in the ocean air and took in the sunsets that she loved. 
• I listened to some of her favourite music. 

It may seem silly, but certain celebrity deaths hit me hard. As if the memories they drum up in me when they die are indicative of some sort of actual physical connection I had to them. When the death of Naomi Judd hit differently last week, I immediately knew why. 

I’ve told the story before – and actually had the opportunity to tell it during a mental health week discussion this week as well – that mum and I performed many car concerts and impromptu-washing-the-dishes duets to the Judds’ greatest hits over the years. We called ourselves “The Dudd’s.”

While I was listening to the waves on the Malagash shore and clumsily switching between Naomi and Wynonna’s harmonies in “Rockin’ with the rhythm of the rain” and “Mama he’s crazy” yesterday morning, I could still hear and feel mum singing along next to me.

I think Naomi Judd’s death – right before Mother’s Day, wrought with mental illness – was just another sharp reminder of just how much I miss my mum… (not that I needed one).

Though I’m grateful to have had these and many, many more warm, soul-filling memories with my mum to flip through in the first place, I’ll never have the moments again.

• These particular moments singing in the car,
• Repeats of old moments done a different way,
• The opportunity for new moments…

Moments with my mum will only ever be memories.

And, though I know she’s here with me as I write this, sometimes it just hits harder.

🖤