A Doll for Mom

My mother came to me in a dream, but she had something real to say. Both she and my father had passed away a few years earlier. Apparently, in my conversations, I would talk forever about my Dad - a firefighter, my scoutmaster, my sister's Sunday School teacher, etc.

"Buddy," she said in this dream, "all I hear is 'my father this' and 'my father that'. Well, I had a hand in raising you too! Who sat with you when you had all those broken bones? Who helped you with your homework? Who was your Cub Scout den mother? Who got you dressed for church on Sunday mornings and school days the rest of the week? Didn't I play a role in your upbringing?" Well, she was right. I was embarrassed and apologetic. She had done all that while working a difficult nursing career and helping lots of others in the family, church and neighborhood. At only 4'6" at her tallest, nevertheless she was a powerhouse. I wouldn't have had as satisfying a life had it not been for my mother's tireless care.

 
Years later I bought her a porcelain flamenco doll while in Spain. (She had a large doll collection.) My friends laughed at me because she was, well, no longer living. "Just because she's dead doesn't mean I can't buy her a doll," I said defensively. Mom came to me in another dream that night too. She wanted to thank me for the doll, tell me she loved it, and reassure me that the journey home would go smoothly. It did.

 
We never outgrow our parents; they leave us all too soon. Sometimes memories are all we have. I have many wonderful memories, but we (mom and I) also have that doll!

© Gilbert Friend-Jones