Mr. Darcy broke my heart

I didn’t have any big revelation today. I didn’t hear angels sing or see a rainbow or find a pot o’ gold; although I did think it was St. Paddy’s day until eleven a.m. My daughter had holiday appropriate clothing on and green bands in her hair. When my husband got out of bed I quickly pointed out that my undergarments had a green stripe on them as to avoid getting pinched. Thus I learned today was just an ordinary day.

But not really so for me. I went birthday shopping for my mom.

I wandered around a store for local entrepreneurs, glancing at old perfume bottles, handmade jewelry, and weird clothing that no one would really buy… would they? All the while, trying not to absorb the words of “Time in Bottle”. I’ve never liked that song, but under the circumstances, my eyes felt like a rain-filled reservoir about to break. I had hoped to find a replica of a lamp my mom made when I was a young- a lamp that I broke while climbing under the table as a child. No such luck there.

I walked over to Evangile, but I still can’t figure out what they’re selling. Case in point? A row of books dedicated to Mr. Darcy. From Jane Austin. Yes. A contemporary fiction series all about a woman’s obsession with Mr. Darcy. I confess to reading one of them because I liked the cover. There’s posters of Luke Wilson (the actor) right next to the Nooma section. Nothing wrong with that. Just … out of balance or something. I was going to buy mom a book because she loves to read, but the backs of them all were nothing less than depressing.

My trip was fruitless. I did decide against a card. No card could ever say the words that I feel for my mother. Absolutely nothing could convey my love for her properly. Except a lamp. Or that other thing that I’m still hoping to find.

And no amount of writing could convey  the emotion that battered the heck out of me today. I kept it at bay. Pushing it back, back, back. Till it turned into a headache.  I wont post this link anywhere because I don’t want my mom to see it. I’m not ashamed, I just don’t want her to think that she was the cause of me having a bad day. In truth, it was a wonderful day. Every single step saturated with meaning. Meaning far too pregnant to explain. How privileged am I to shop for the greatest woman I have ever known?

Maybe I will post this. Maybe I do want her to read this. I don’t know if she will or not… but I want her to know that I love her. So much that it hurts.

Mom… I absolutely love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you forever.


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