Nobody Loves You Like Your Mom

For years, my Mom and Dad had a large picture of me hanging in the hallway. It was my high school graduation portrait, courtesy of the local photography studio. My Mom was a preschool teacher and arranged for the studio to come to her school every year to take portraits of her students.  When it finally came time for me to have my senior pictures done, they gave her an oversized, beautifully framed print, perhaps as a way of thanking her for bringing them so much business.

I never thought much of it.

Except, a few days ago, as we started the process of clearing out my Mom’s house, I realized something.

There is nobody left on the planet who would treasure that big picture of me from high school.

No one.  

Not my kids. Not my other relatives. Heck, I didn’t even want it. I never liked the picture that much to begin with. I had an unfortunate 80s hair cut, long in the back but mullet-like on top, one that took years to grow out.

Still, it made me sad.  It’s sobering to realize that all the people who knew you first are gone, that nobody is left who will ever cherish you in that way again.  If we are lucky, our parents and grandparents, our elders, gift us with a love that is deep and profound and impossible to duplicate. When they are gone, that love and all their stories and memories go with them.  I should have realized it was coming, but I never thought of it. The fact that there are no longer any old people in the world who love me? It’s sobering. This loss has left me feeling alone in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Here is another truth, though.

Love never dies.  I was blessed to be loved by two remarkable parents, and their love has stayed with me. I still feel it today.

But the question remains: what to do with that huge portrait?

I told my husband just to throw it in the dumpster. We had a big one that we’d rented. It was already full of expired food, old mattresses,and broken down chairs that my Mom didn’t mind sitting in but that no one else wanted.

I was crying as I said this, though.

Wise man that he is, he figured out another option. He removed the ornate frame, and slid the print into an old photo album which we brought home and put in the bookcase.  It takes  up a lot less room that way.  And knowing that it’s there makes me happy. Not because I love the photo, but because it reminds me of my parents, and a time that is past, and of their love which remains.