Mom,
We were driving to Waffle House.
I remembered that part later. At first, I just remembered you singing in the truck. Then the rest came back: you were driving, I was seventeen, and we were going to Waffle House like we did on Saturdays.
We had The Calling’s album because we liked “Wherever You Will Go.” But it was another song that made you cry that morning.
“Gosh, this song is so sad.”
I didn’t understand.
“What is it about? A breakup?”
“Gosh, no. Listen to it.”
You wanted me to hear the words. And when the background vocals came in—“fade away”—you pointed them out.
“Do you hear that?”
I remember looking at you, trying to understand what you were hearing that I wasn’t. We were just going to breakfast. You were right there beside me.
I heard that song again the other day.
And Mom, I hear it now.
I understand wanting another day. I understand going back through ordinary memories and finding things I would give almost anything to do again.
A Saturday morning. Your truck. Waffle House.
I would give anything to go back for one more minute. I would tell you that if this were our future, it would break me. It would change me forever.
But I get to remember this, too:
You beside me. Your voice. Your tears over a song I thought was about a breakup.
I wish I could tell you that I remembered. I wish I could call and ask whether you remembered it, too. Maybe you would. Maybe it was just one of a hundred drives to breakfast for you.
But it stayed with me.
I just never imagined it would be about you.
And now, all these years later, I’m the one crying in the car.
I hear it, Mom.
I hear it so loud.
It cuts deep, Mom.
I wish you were here to hear me say that.
Some days, I barely make it through the day.
Living without a goodbye—I don’t know that I will ever fully recover.
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