There is Motherlove for the Motherless

I lost my mom, not my need or ability to be mothered.

Seventeen years ago, the trill of a million cicadas greeted my sisters and me as we left the church where our mother raised us. They landed on our car and shouted above our grief as we followed the hearse down a long Virginia road. Each mile took us farther away from the life we knew. Each minute took us further from our own memory. My mother was a woman of faith and told us many times, “when you see me there in that casket, that’s not me. That’s just my shell. I’m with the Lord.” We chose to believe her. We wept all the same.

Mother’s Day sucks for a lot of people. Amidst the torrent of flowers, greeting cards and targeted ads there is also grief. Mother-loss, stillbirths, miscarriages, failed adoptions, abandonment, tragedy and abuse are part and parcel of Mother’s Day for many. Just like the shrill half buzz, half rattle of the cicadas, Mother’s Day can be unbearable and impossible to ignore.

Losing my mom just a few weeks after Mother’s Day makes this an especially tender time of the year. I miss her. I miss her laugh and her wit. I miss her beauty and the way she seemed to sparkle in the right company. I miss her jokes and her cooking though neither were very good and I won’t tell you which was better. I miss how she always believed me.

About a week ago, I caught up with a friend who has grown kids. One of her kids is queer. My friend shared her frustration about all of the insensitive parents who ask invasive…