Ten years ago today my mom called from Indianapolis and said,
“I’m sick, Pumpkinhead.”
Sixty days later she went up to heaven.
My mom was the only person who ever called me that term of endearment. Rightfully so, since she gave birth to a big-headed son who came into the world gregarious and truculent.
I have never really grieved the loss of my mother because she never really left me. Throughout my adult life my mom lived one hundred and seventy miles down I-65. A straight shot through cornfields and truck stops, the kind of drive you can do with muscle memory. The most important thing I have learned these last ten years is that heaven is much closer than Indianapolis, Indiana.
My mom leaves me dimes and shows up occasionally at my bedside at 2:22 in the morning. That is her angel number, symbolic of the 222 mile post on I-65. Whenever we drove past that stretch of Hoosier highway, she would tell me she loved me and lean over to kiss my forehead.
Most of those trips I would cringe and tell her to stop. I was too grown up, too cool, too busy being a tough guy. Today I would give anything for one more of those embarrassing smooches.
Every year since her passing I celebrate what I call the Sixty Days of Cecilia. From March 6th, when she told me the grave news, until May 6th when she died.
This year I’m giving up sweets, which I actually began on Ash Wednesday. I’m also giving up cigars and maybe the biggest sacrifice of all, Chicago food.
That last one will be the hardest.
Hot dogs dragged through the garden. Pizza cut in squares. Italian beefs dripping down my wrist. Gyros wrapped in foil smothered in tzatziki. Pizza puffs that burn the roof of your mouth and Maxwell Street polishes with grilled onions.
Chicago food isn’t just food. It is memory, it is a way of life. It is as comforting as my mommy's embrace.
Through the years I have given up booze, sex, red meat, and bread. Sixty days has a funny way of reminding a man what he leans on and what he can live without.
It is hard to believe how quickly these ten years have passed.
My mom hasn’t been around to watch me blossom into fatherhood or see me take a second swing at bachelorhood. Then again, if heaven really is closer than Indianapolis, she has probably had a front-row seat the entire time
She has seen every time I raised my voice at the Shepkids and every time I’ve had a little Jumbo love sleepover.
So I raise my parting glass to Cecilia Marie and honor her these next sixty days in prayer, sacrifice, and memory.
Because a mother doesn’t really leave. Sometimes she just moves a little closer to heaven and a little deeper into your life.
