Twenty-seven—the number of years you’ve been gone. It still hurts. I still don’t really celebrate Mother’s Day. I used to say after you were gone that Michelle is not my mother, so I don’t have to. And of course, I always knew that was wrong. She is the mother of my children. I’m getting better at that part.
Each year on this day, I find a quiet place and space to talk to you, to hear your voice. Each year I get better at the listening part.
This note is to tell you how clearly, I can hear you.
This note is to tell you I understand.
This note is to tell you how much I love you.
This weekend I drove almost twenty hours roundtrip to Arkansas in less than 48 hours. I know, right? You know how much I claimed I hated driving after the year you and Dad retired and I drove back and forth seven times in less than a year. Today you reminded me about the penultimate trip to North Carolina in that short of a timespan—twenty-eight hours roundtrip. Well, for you only fourteen, because I was dropping you off. Just you and me headed to NC, like the annual family road trips “home” with the whole family. I did all the driving, just like Dad—not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t like highway driving. And back then, it was a man’s job. I have a lot of Dad’s traits.
To be honest, I don’t remember what we talked about all those years ago. No satellite radio, only country once you got past Indianapolis, only a couple of mixtapes on Memorex. I do remember it was fun, fun like it used to be when I was your only child. I had my Momma all to myself again.
I remember the timeline of my life: spring of ’92, between relationships, working at the bank, the Mustang at home… wait, I don’t remember what we drove? Dad was coming later, but you had already found the new house. I don’t think it was a U-Haul. Maybe it was the Ninety-Eight. Anyway.
Michelle and I hit the road, of course. Just like Dad, I wanted to be out the door at 3:00 AM sharp kind of for the same reason all those years ago: sundown towns.
The amenities of road trips are far different now—Memorex replaced by Spotify, an AI DJ dictating the vibe, Waze taking care of the navigation, and lane assist to keep you from drifting off course. The purpose, similar: moving.
This time, her mom (well, more of her stuff), helping her close out her chapter of life in Arkansas. We headed down—another penultimate trip—to gather, sort, pack memories caught in pictures and a plethora of material possessions accumulated over an eighty-six-year life.
The desire to get back so Michelle could celebrate and be celebrated on Mother’s Day.
Me—the need to be out of Arkansas again before dark. Sundown towns.
To be with her mom on this special day she didn’t remember was special.
Dementia.
Our sons—our amazing sons—made brunch for their mother and grandmother.
Made me think I should have made more of an effort to celebrate this day with you.
I let Michelle drive. That’s Wallace men progress. On the way down in Rolla, on the way back just past St. Louis.
As I sit on the deck writing this—after brunch, after a nap trying to recover from the drive that ended at 3:30 AM—listening to you, feeling your presence in the sun and silence. As real and true as the last time I saw you living on this side of the ancestral plain.
You asked me what I wanted—speaking of material things in this world.
Although I was unprepared for the question, my answer was instant:
“Mom, what I want you can’t give me, because I want you to live.”
Today, you reminded me of something Stephen King, my favorite author, wrote in The Dark Tower series. Roland of Gilead (the gunslinger) is forced at some point to choose between his quest for the Dark Tower and saving Jake Chalmers (the boy) from falling to his supposed death. Jake says to Roland, “…let me go, there are other worlds than this.”Roland does let go of his hand.
Today, as you are watching me on my path of spiritual enlightenment and growth, I remember that you always knew exactly what to say to your son.
Thanks, Mom.
Love you.
Happy Mother’s Day.
