Normally, this phrase is a desperate cry, often through tears, in times of frustration, sadness, fear, disappointment. From a little kid.
Now, it’s often a soft internal utterance. Just stating a fact. From the part of me who will always be your daughter. From the little me for whom you will always be ‘my mommy.’
When I want to ask you a question about something that happened, that no one else would know, to clarify my memories, I want my mommy.
When I feel a new appreciation for something you did or who you were, when I want to thank you, I want my mommy.
When I want to share, mother-to-mother, I want my mommy.
When my son does or says something I am proud about, I want my mommy.
When I see the late autumn day sun illuminating wildly colored leaves, I want my mommy.
When I realize no one has critiqued the recording on my answering machine, I want my mommy.
When I want to revisit a conversation we had 45 years ago, I want my mommy.
I know, I know. I can speak to her. I can hear her. She is alive in me, certainly. In a way.
Still, I want to see her make a goofy face, hear her sing quietly to my son as he falls asleep. I want to hold her hand and play with it during services, hear her talk in funny dialects and watch her laugh till the tears come. I want to see her (my) feet. I want to smell her skin, smooth her eyebrow with my finger, to give her head a scratch and scratch that same place on her back under the bra strap, to love her.
Still, I want to give you happiness. Make you happy. See you being happy. Give you love. Love you. Lay with my head in your lap, your hand stroking my hair. Get your love. That unique, uplifting, universe-filling, life-saving love I always got, could only get, from You and Dad.
I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.