Fredricka R. Maister

Sitting atop my bedroom dresser is a 4 ½” x 4 ½” velvet square pillow that says, “Mom, thanks for being you.”

The pillow seems out of place. First of all, I am not a mom. Secondly, it does not belong to me.  I bought it in a Hallmark card store and gave it to my mother decades ago for either Mother’s Day or her birthday.

With its sweet Hallmark message and hearts and flowers within squares, it was too schmaltzy for my “discerning” taste, but I felt compelled to purchase it for my mother. Its blues, pinks and purples were her favorite colors. I also knew she’d be deeply touched by the words.

When my sister cleaned out Mom’s room at the nursing home after she died, she handed me the pillow.

At the graveside service, my cousin Lauren dropped a note on top of my mom’s simple wooden coffin, which read “Goodbye, Aunt Bea.” As the note landed, I suddenly remembered Mom’s pillow. I berated myself  “Why hadn’t I brought it along so it could be buried with Mom. The pillow should have been laid to rest with her. Nothing could have been more perfect and meaningful.”

So, instead, Mom’s pillow has remained on my dresser all these years. Sadly, the sight of it sometimes fills me with regret--for not giving it back to her in death, and for the many “schmaltzy” things I should have said to her in life like a simple, “I love you, Mom.” But more memorably, I think of just how special my mother was and how lucky I was to be her daughter.