I was driving to my weekly doctors appointment, turning onto Alexander, when this song poured through my radio - You Should Be Here by Cole Swindell.
What started out three minutes earlier as a normal, routine drive, sent me into a tidal wave of emotion, bawling through stop lights and flooding tears down Providence.
She should be here.
She should be here, and know my husband. She should be here and see him laugh, see him provide, see him care for me. She should be here and know his heart, know his deep character, know his incredible love for me. She should be here and know his name is Mark Christopher and he has dark hair and stunning blue eyes and likes Brooks Brothers and blue shirts and practical gifts and family time and making me happy. She should be here and watch him grow, watch him learn parenthood, watch him weed the grass, carry in the mail, greet her at the door. She should be here, and rub her hands on her apron and hug him and love him. She should be here and know him, because he's my husband.
She should be here.
She should be here, and know my daughter. She should be here and know her name, Camilla Rose Stone, and that she is full of life and vibrance and crazy and compassion; that her hair is curly blonde and changes with the weather and her eyes match her Grandma's blues and she plays piano too. She should be here and know her deep-gut laughter, her silly kiss faces, and love for all things. She should be here and hear "Grandma" and "Hug" and "Go Home Mommy" and "Cheese" and know every little word and way its said, and tuck them in her heart like sparkling diamonds, mini beauitful treasures. She should be here and sit with books piled on her lap, with Camilla and Baby Molly and all the others, then push them on swings and take her hand in a stroll. She should be here and know the "purple room" and cuddle with soft hands and clothe with pink shoes. She should be here and know my daughter, because she my daughter.
She should be here.
She should be here, and meet my son. She should know his name, and that his room is soft cloud blue. She should be here and dream in it, standing with me over newborn diapers and blue hued onsies and stacking pacis and tiny little shoes. She should be here and say aloud his verse and pray for his courage and know I need it too. She should be here and give words and hope and peace into this new boy-mommy, this waiting room. She should be here, booking flights and arranging dates and packing suitcases to stay, with me, at my house, with my babies, with my family, because it's birth and life and my son and and her grandson and it matters. I matter. He matters. She should be here, with me, waiting for my son, because he's my son.
She should be here.
She should be here, and know my house, my people. She should walk into my kitchen and grab a Tervis and drink from a thick, wide straw. She should be here and jump in my Explorer and get lunch out, because its Wednesday. She should be here, and talk with me about roses and rugs and cleaning and decor. She should be here and know Trish and Kelly and Emily and Amy and Sheree. She should be here and know Crisp and Terrace and SouthPark and eat Uptown with Mark. She should be here and see my life, know my family, and get it... be proud, be wowed, be so incredibly involved. She should be here in my Charlotte life, because she's my mom, and it's my life.
She should be here.
She should be here, because she's my mom. Because she's the only one I want to talk to about preschools and schedules and babies and pregnancy and hope and waiting and husbands and friends and life and community and books and church and teaching and tea. She should be here because she'd get all of it, because she's my mom, and I'm me. And I could talk and not filter, I could express and not guard, I could complain and be sifted, I could release and be hugged. I could be loved. She should be here so I could have "home" and places to land and soft spots to fall, and backbone for courage and stories for reference and her strength leaned on through it all. She should be here, knowing the depth of me and listening to it all -- the rambles, the questions, the wrestlings, the confusion, of motherhood and churches and babies and toddlers and home... She should be here, because she's my mother after all.
She should be here.
