I woke up sick this morning. I have a cough, a bit of a fever. My head hurts, and my shoulders ache. I get dizzy when I stand up, and I want to call my mom.
I want to call my mom and tell her I don’t feel well. I want to describe every ache and pain. I want to tell her that Cole is learning to drive, and Ella threw a fit in the middle of swim lessons. I want to tell her that Meg is taking the SATs in a few weeks and that her team lost their last soccer game.
I want to call my mom and tell her that it’s raining. I want to tell her I bought her a Mother’s Day present. Ella taught herself how to whistle and my dishwasher is on the fritz.
I want to call my mom and tell her I have a dentist appointment next week and our dog got his spring hair cut. I want to tell her my car needs an oil change and Cole pulled his grade up in science. I want to tell her that Tim fixed the truck tire; he’s swamped at work; I have a new tomato soup recipe.
I want to call my mom, but I can’t.
Some mornings loss throws herself in front of you and trips you up. Some mornings loss is that itch you can’t scratch, that connection you simply can’t make. Some mornings you just want to call your mom, and when you realize you can’t, you are left crying in front of your computer wondering how you will turn your morning around.