I Should Have Read Her Books...

I've never been one to agree with the phrase, "no regrets." It's inevitable that we will make decisions in our lives we wish we hadn't. Our mistakes may help develop us into who we are, but that doesn't mean we should be OK with all of our choices. I know I'm not.

I've mentioned before that my mother is my hero. That remains forever true. She and I had an incredibly close and beautiful relationship, and even though I was an absolute pill during my teenage years, I grew up and apologized profusely for being so awful. She, of course, laughed, hugged me tightly, and promised I would have a daughter of my own one day. And... let me tell you... I most definitely do!

It's coming up on six years since my mother's passing... mother is way too formal... my mama's passing, and I always become very nostalgic around this time of year. She was so tiny... standing straight up, she still fit under my chin, and yet, when she hugged me, even as an adult, I felt completely safe and totally cared for. She was remarkable.

I've often wondered what I would do if I had just one more day with her. Besides the endless tears and laughter and warmth and joy, I finally have an answer: I would read her books and rectify one of my life's biggest regrets.

Mama was, and still is, one of the most talented and creative people I've ever known. She sewed designer dresses, painted beautifully, crafted anything out of anything... amazing things, magical things. She was also a writer. When I was in my especially putrid middle school years, my mom began writing a series of children's books. She wrote daily and proudly and tried endlessly to get them published. It never happened, but she wrote them anyway and asked only one thing of me... to read.

I didn't.

I was too cool, too busy, too... let's face it... bitchy. I didn't have time for the one person who would drop everything to make time for me. And it kills me still. When I was finally over my selfish, self-centered phase in life, it was too late. Our house flooded away, and with it, her beautiful stories. We tried to recover them, but the damage had been done. Out of everything we lost in that flood, her stories are what most saddened her.

As a writer, you vulnerably place your heart on paper and hope and pray someone else sees it for what it is worth and for what it means to you. I hurt my mother when I refused to read her books. I hurt her and made her feel unworthy. I wish I had one more day with her to tell her how proud I am of her. How much I love her stories. How much I love her. How much she continues to influence and guide me. I have no doubt she knew and felt my undeniable love for her... but I wish I could have given her even more... because she deserved it.

Regrets are real. I suppose they are even necessary. I hold on to that regret, so I'll never repeat it again. Because it wasn't about reading, it was about loving.