It is Mother's Day, a day you did not care about much. At least not the commercial part of it.
But you appreciated and cared for an extra hug, an 'I love you', a warm embrace, holding your hand.
Just the normal but ever important affection in daily life, not solely on Mother's Day.
Being a mother and wife was your joy, not a duty. Your dream was being a mother of a large family but knew that just my brother and I were miracles with miscarriages in between.
We were so much wanted and even more loved.
Viewing photos of our childhood, I smile. I see the love in the way you hold us, in your eyes looking at us. Watching us when were not in immediate reach, always alert without smothering.
You were also a mother to foster children, our friends, you created a warm and welcoming home for everyone. You loved to cook, especially Indonesian meals for large groups of friends and family.
You were always there for us, answering our questions whenever they popped up. Whether is was about sexual education, political matters or just the daily chores of growing from a happy child to a confused teenager and a grown up human being.
My memories go way back using the beautiful monochrome photos Dad took of our childhood.
To Zaandam where I was born, visiting your parents. Visiting Dad's mother and uncle in Steenwijk.
Long car drives during which I got car sick, a standard procedure. You held me and comforted me.
You and Dad taught me to read and write before I went to elementary school. You understood the importance of being honest about my first operation; the pain, the recovering.
Even more you understood my free spirit and my introversion. Yes, you and Dad set guidelines for a properly functioning household (called the 'traffic lights') but you explained why things were not allowed or better not to do. And thus allowed us to make mistakes in life.
You and Dad drew one line in the upbringing. Dad was often away for his work and you were capable of raising us almost on your own. Of course you discussed things with Dad but you supported each others decision for the one and only reason that they were made in our best interest with all the love you could give.
You confessed you did not sleep when I took the Ferry to the UK at the age of 17, determined to go on holiday all on my own. You told me this afterwards, in fore you were as enthusiastic (and nervous) as I was. You told me that Dad and you knew I was smart enough to know my limits. A trust in me I have never forgotten and which was so crucial for the rest of my life.
I remember our holidays together to the UK where you met my 'second' Mum and Dad, those wonderful Yorkshire people I met in Somerset and who became my other parents. Mum and you both answered when I said: 'Mama', you got on so well together.
These holidays with you Mama, are so precious. I fulfilled your dream and we both enjoyed every minute. Also a wonderful chance to get to know you better since I moved out of the house, being married.
You nursed Dad for 24 years after he got ill at the age of 43, a year in which you battled and survived Breast Cancer. You fought to stay alive and to live a normal as possible life. And never failed to spread care and love.
After both Dads died within a few years time, our bond got stronger. And how happy I was for you when you met an old friend and both fell in love.
And how much we needed each other when this friend died within a year and you were not able to laugh anymore. For a whole year I never saw your beautiful smile which you always kept in the past, no matter what happened. It hurt so much, Mama.
You were there for me when my marriage ended and I had to return home from Sweden. You offered me your love, arms and home. You listened, cried with me and helped me to get back on my feet.
You arranged the viewing of a rental home even before I was back in Holland and you were as happy as I was when I moved to the same village.
You cried for me when I was diagnosed with severe Breast Cancer and refused to cry myself.
You held me when I vomited my heart out during the chemo therapy. I slept in your arms when I was too tired to stand on my feet. You applaud when I refused to wear a wig and loved the shawls I made to cover my head.
Although your body grew old and tired, disabled, you offered me your automatic comfort chair after both my hip operations. You spoilt me with love, tea and healthy food. You finally was a mothering mother again now I was less stubborn and self supporting.
You looked after my wonderful dog when I found a job for which I had to travel within Europe.
We had long conversations via the mobile phone on my way to the airports, happy to share my trips and I was more than happy to share them with you.
Your health deteriorated and I became your part time carer. The rules changed, now I was the one
who looked after you and found out of whom I inherited my stubbornness! You refused to complain, always looked at the bright side. Sometimes taking the wrong decisions, ending in being rushed to the hospital.
I stayed with you whenever I could, holding your hand. But we always laughed, sharing the same sense of humour, able to see the sun shining behind every cloud.
Then came the day the alarm service called me, you had fallen in the living room.
Living so close to you I was there in a minute and knew instantly you had broken your hip in a very bad way. You did not cry, you did not complain although you were in so much pain.
The ambulance arrived quickly and the wonderful paramedics gave you morphine before they moved you. You held my hand, did not want to let go.
You accepted munch sooner than I that the broken hip was inoperable, also due to your heart condition. Medication kept the pain level low but you knew you were going to die. And you smiled, a broad calm smile. We both knew you longed for joining your Heavenly Father, I knew I was going to meet you again. But I cried.
I read somewhere 'A parent always dies too young' and this is true. You want to keep them with you for ever. In good health. But true love does not allow needles suffering and I told you it was alright to go.
I cried at the day of your funeral. I was not able to speak and loved my brother for doing that also for me, accompanied by the sound of heavy rainfalls on the church roof.
I cried when they lowered your coffin next to Dad but smiled when suddenly the sky opened and dazzling sunbeams shone right into your grave. I knew you were Home.
Life moved on. I remarried and became a widow. I moved house to built up a new life.
How much I like to talk to you, to ask you for advise, to enjoy my beautiful little house and the area together. To drink tea, to eat biscuits, to laugh and to love. To even argue with you. To embrace you.
I love you, Mama
