IN ANTICIPATION OF MOTHERS' DAY

When Mama died, not so very long ago, writing was the last thing I wanted to do. The depth of my sadness overwhelmed me, and in desperation to find solace and an expression of my grief, these words came to me:

I want to don sackcloth and ashes, run down coal-hot cobblestone streets
with bare feet—stoic and without a whimper. I want to watch eyebrows rise when I silently tear my sackcloth, wishing all the while for a wardrobe change.

I want to look like the old church sisters, who wore their finest black spun-cotton stockings and freshly pressed black dress suit, complete with jacket and straight skirt or the long black dress with starched white collar and long sleeves. I wouldn’t forget the shoes, severe and laced, heels lifting the mourner just slightly off the ground. These were the recognizable signs of mourning—the visible signs of pain and loss.
When Mama died I needed a sign or symbol that set me apart from everyone else. I once thought of wearing a sign: “Did you know my mother died?” Seemed far more relevant than asking what Jesus would do.