Too Strong for Words

Mom, I have been thinking about you a lot lately, in particular, how strong you have always been. I think of you as strong physically, though you aren’t very big, and mentally (a very sharp lady!), but especially emotionally. All my life you have been like a rock, always solid and always there when I needed you.

When my first marriage didn’t work out well, when Daddy died, when we lost our grandparents, when Keith and I went “broke” (but we didn’t file for bankruptcy), when brothers-in-law have come and gone (the list could go on), you have always been a refuge of strength for me.

I speak of strength as an admirable quality, and I have always admired it in you. Yet, today I find myself wishing you weren’t quite so strong, at least in one respect. Throughout my life you have controlled your emotions, almost always. Only once or twice can I remember you upset enough to cry in front of people, and then only briefly. As I was growing up, you would encourage me to be strong, keep a stiff upper lip, and keep going (you knew I could make it).

But now I wish you would “let down” just a little. You are still keeping up a strong façade, even though you may not understand that you are or why you are. I feel that sometimes your facial expression suggests that you are aware of something wrong, but you just cannot pinpoint the problem. How I wish that when the puzzlement comes on, you would admit it and open up! How I would love to be able to answer a question for you! How I wish I could make something clear for you at times when you look so bewildered!

You somehow straighten your little shoulders and go on. You don’t ask the question that seems so close to the surface. Then the moment passes, and we go back to our superficial conversation. And you try to look strong, even at this point in your life with the disease that is taking you away day by day. But I’ll be strong because you taught me how. I love you, Mom. Thank you for the virtues you modeled so well for your children.