How can I forget the name of the book?

I awoke this morning a little sad and a lot tired. The night was filled with strange dreams that left me unsettled, but with no memory of the content. But the day is mine to own, so I walked outside to adjust my attitude, screen-recorded a fun music mash-up and sent it to my new friends with a positive message about having an amazing day. I checked on my garden, lamented over the funky problems I’m having with my tomato plants and walked towards my yard. Before my feet hit the grass, I saw a bunny peacefully grooming itself in the yard. I spoke softly to it, backed up and pulled out my phone to record my fuzzy friend.

There are a few rabbits that visit consistently to gorge themselves on the ornamental peaches that fall from the tree I lovingly named Hebe, after the Greek Goddess of eternal youth. Despite the gaping hole in her trunk, she still produces fruit for the animals in our neighborhood who are forced to live in our concrete jungle. She brings rabbits, squirrels, birds, bees and butterflies and we enjoy every moment of it. As I watched our little rabbit friend, my thoughts turned towards my mother and how much joy she would have received visiting this small patch of dirt we currently call home. I imagine her and Dad sleeping in the guest room, and her waking early, lightly complaining the bed is too small and she misses her bed in the trailer. I imagine her slowly and carefully walking down the stairs, still a bit drowsy, with her curls tussled everywhere, shaking off her mildly cranky morning mood and lightly laughing at herself at how much harder it is to walk downstairs than it used to be.

She would have walked to the kitchen to start a warm drink and headed straight outside before it was finished to breath in the morning air. She would have spoken so lovingly to all my flowers and vegetables to tell them how beautiful they are and what a good job they’re doing growing. She would have been extra gentle with the sad plants, letting them know they’re loved and they can do it. Then she would have looked into the yard and the sight of the bunny would have made her morning smile even larger. I imagine her lowering herself and perching on the balls of her feet, to make herself smaller and seem less intimidating. She would have spoken kindly, with a song in her voice, and made all kinds of small talk with the fuzzy little cottontail. She would have pulled out her tiny outdated iPhone 6 to snap a quick picture, but she would mostly concentrate on the bunny and enjoy the moment of connection.

I miss her. So often. And I’m forgetting her and that makes me so angry. How?? How can I be forgetting her? How can I lose memories of the most amazing gift the world gave just to me, the kindest, most loving, most amazing woman who chose to be my Mom. I’ve never been good with numbers, it’s like a weird block in my brain. If there’s a number, I just can’t remember and I can’t remember what year mom died? Maybe 2021? 2022? I’m so angry that I can’t remember. I think it was December 3^rd? Or maybe it was the 4^th? I can never remember that either. Was it the day before my birthday? Or two days before my birthday? My whole life, I’ve never been able to remember dates, times, or any details with a number – unless I’ve seen it in writing and written it myself. I don’t think I’ve ever written down the day Mom died, because … why would I?

I walk around this insanely huge rental home that she’s never set foot in and I have no memories of her here. While the book I made, with all of her adorable Facebook posts, sits on a shelf in my living room … it’s almost become another fixture we pass by daily that simply takes up space and collects dust. I’ve never heard her laugh echo through the kitchen, I’ve never seen her paint at our table, or watch a movie in our media room. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you might lose memories of even someone that important if you don’t see them when you look around.

Losing her was sudden and unexpected. My father was understandably distraught and forgot to call me. My brother was the one to deliver the news, and he did it badly, because he understandably was dealing with his own shock and grief. It was devastating losing her, but we continued to lose her over the course of the next few months.

My son and I spent time helping my father move some things to and from storage and I spent some time helping my father pull Moms items from storage to sort through. That was one of the best days of my life. We opened totes, bags and boxes with the most fascinating mementos from my mother’s life. Pictures of her through the years in school, report cards, trinkets and tokens from places she visited, and even things like food stamps from WW2. Among her books, was an original copy of either Alice in Wonderland or … damn … I can’t remember the name of the other book. SHIT! HOW THE FUCK CAN I FORGET?? I remember seeing the book and instantly being in awe. I picked it up carefully, aware of how fragile book bindings can become when subjected to years in storage and heat exposure. I remember thinking it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It had obvious signs of wear, minor signs of neglect, but it was still absolutely beautiful and it still contained every single original word of that beautiful story that I can’t fucking remember. I knew a few months ago, but … so many memories have happened since then and I’m so angry that I can’t remember the book.

I wanted the book. It was all I wanted. Because it was classic, just like her. It was an original, just like her. It was filled with beauty, courage, adventure and kindness, just like her. But, it wasn’t for me. Because she wasn’t my “Mom”, she was my “Stepmom” and her belongings were for her biological children and that’s why I was there. To box up her life to give it all to her kids. I get it. I do. But … for 26 years, we called her Mom and my kids called her Gram. For 20 of those years, she lived within 30 minutes of us. We spent 26 years making so many memories with her, while her biological children lived states away. They still interacted with their mom of course and they’re great people, but she was our mom too. She held my children the day they were born, she helped teach kids to walk and talk, she chauffeured kids to t-ball and driving school, she attended choir concerts with stupid songs sung in dead languages and still hyped it up to tell her grandkids how proud she was of them. She attended football games and cheered loudly in the stands and clapped and yelled for all the kids at their graduations. She hugged me tightly as we watched my oldest son get married to the love of his life and we celebrated this amazing family we all created.

But … I couldn’t have the book. I understood, but I didn’t like it. I took my time sorting my Dad’s memories from Moms, enjoying reading every paper, every note, looking at every picture, to get as many glimpses as I could into the life of the woman I loved so dearly … knowing, I would never see these items again. Her children live states away. We’ve only met one of them in person with his son, and the rest in person the day we all met for Mom’s funeral because of the distance. Since there is no relationship or interaction, I knew that day was the only day I would have to try to know as much as I could about Linda, before she became my Mom. I wish I had taken a video that day, not just for me, but for my kids, because … I’m forgetting. Instead, I just cherished the moment, but wtf good was that if I can’t remember it??? So I start being angry all over again.

Then I remember, I have one thing, just one. When dad went inside his trailer to use the restroom, I reached into the box and stole a book. I know, I know – I’m an asshole, I don’t care, I’ll own that one. I didn’t take the book I wanted, because I had already pointed out to my dad that she owned it, so I just took the first book my hand touched and quickly shoved it into my purse. It’s an interesting book and it actually feels pretty controversial for its time. It’s titled, “Stories the Iroquois Tell Their Children” and it was published in 1917. “The binding is fragile” (which I always hear in Hermoine’s voice) and it has a tiny bit of discoloration due to age and heat/air exposure, but it’s one of the most beautiful things I own, because it was hers. Because she touched it, read it, owned it and it was important enough for her to keep through all her moves through the years and now it was mine. I do feel bad for stealing it though and if one of her children told me it was an important family heirloom, I would absolutely give it back. But until then …

To be fair, I have a few other things of hers, but literally just a few. There’s a hat I’d never wear, but that Dad lovingly passed out to all of the women in my family the day of Moms funeral, sharing all the hats she loved with the rest of us. I have a few craft items like knitting needles, crochet hooks and embroidery hooks – but I didn’t even know my mom could crochet. I also have one other thing that I treasure and love, drawings of animals from Africa. Those drawings blown my mind. It’s hard to imagine there was a time where someone did not know what a tiger looked like because there are no tigers in North America, or a giraffe or elephant or any other animal that isn’t native to their country. There was a time before the internet, before photography, before books, before schools, before so much when we had no concept of anything in other parts of the world, unless someone brought back stories or hand-drawn pictures. Those drawings are pretty cool too … but they don’t remind me of her in any way. They were tucked away in a craft box of hobbies and I don’t recall her ever talking about them.

I didn’t realize, that without lingering remnants of her strewn about my house, that I might forget memories of her. I don’t know how to fix that, other than to keep documenting the stories I do remember and to keep making videos for my kids and future grandkids to help us remember. I go to bed tired most days, and spent much of my time creating joy and taking care of my husband, kids and local family. I rarely say no and I try to be as active and present as possible and sometimes it’s exhausting, but … I don’t want my family to forget me. I don’t want them to forget how much I love them and how much I believe in them. I want them to remember the lessons I’ve tried to teach them (and live myself) over the years about owning your life and happiness, being a lifetime learner and doing all the crazy things you want to do just because you want to. I spend a lot of time doing what I want also and I spend a lot of time creating and creating joy for myself, because I choose happiness for myself and I choose to model that for my family because I want them to choose happiness for themselves.

Maybe … maybe one day I’ll remember the name of the book and I’ll go to the Half-Price books and look at the literary treasures they have locked behind the glass and I’ll find another original copy of that book. I’ll read every page and put a little note inside of my favorite parts of the book about how it made me feel and how Gram once owned and kept the same book. I’ll leave the note tucked away amongst the pages and put it on a shelf. While I hope the day is far, far away, perhaps one day, one of my children or grandchildren will be helping box up the trinkets and treasures I choose in this life and they’ll come across the book. Maybe they’ll pick it up and rifle through the pages, noticing the inconsistency in the edges where my note creates a small bulge. Maybe they’ll read the note and feel like they’re a part of a legacy and maybe they’ll want to keep the book too. And they won’t have to be angry (sad…I know… the word is sad) they forgot the title.