My thoughts form in random places. Monday, it happened while I was picking up a chicken sandwich and a yogurt parfait for lunch. Grief has a way of hiding in everyday moments, and the last thing I expected was for a parfait to trigger mine. It brought me back to my childhood when my mom used to buy my sister and me KFC little bucket parfaits, and I got teary‑eyed.
Today marks ten years since my mother passed away, and maybe that’s why the memory hit me hard.
Growing up, we weren’t great at expressing emotions. I still remember the day my mom found a grade‑school assignment I wrote… a short essay about my hero. I wrote that she was a good cook, that she could sew, and that she took care of our family. Mom seemed genuinely touched when she found out she was my hero, but I felt embarrassed. That was the dynamic: love was present, but showing it felt uncomfortable.
Remembering My Mom
I knew my mom as my mother. But I didn’t get the chance to know the version of her before she was a mother. As an adult, I see that she was more than a good cook. She could sing, draw, and play a little piano. My mom could budget and stretch every dollar to feed a family of four, by planning meals, checking the weekly circulars, buying what was on sale, and clipping coupons. During the holidays, she would cook a feast for us to enjoy with our friends.
She hated being late, and she could nag like any mom. A devout Catholic, I’m certain my mom prayed for me every day when I wandered far from the church up until her passing.
She held grudges, yet as my mother, she was selfless and forgiving. She loved me through my mistakes, through the times I didn’t listen to her advice, through the years when I thought I knew better. Mom laughed at my jokes and thought I was funny (a sentiment only a few share). And even though I didn’t realize it back then, she understood that words of affirmation were one of my love languages. She told me I was smart, that I was a good communicator, that I was pretty. She offered the kind of encouragement that has stayed with me long after her passing.
Ten years later, I’m still learning who my mom was and recognizing the parts of her in me. And sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary day, a parfait reminds me of how much I love and miss my mom.
