I remember feeding Mom her favorite chocolates as a kid, kneeling next to her on the hospital bed we’d given a permanent residence in our home.
I would unwrap the foil, Mom would open her mouth as widely as she could, and I would gently place the treat on her shriveled tongue. It never disgusted me, her skeletal frame or the way her mouth spasmed as she fought for control over her dying muscles.
These were some of my favorite memories.
A lot of weird things happen when you’re young and your mom is sick. A lot of strange memories are made.
Like the excitement of Mom picking us up from school when I was in kindergarten, with Dum Dums tucked under her leg for us to snack on as she drove us the half mile home in her electric wheelchair.
Or the silly phrases she would pre-program into her computerized voice to leave us in fits of giggles.
Or the horror of coming home one day in 3rdgrade and seeing her hooked to an oxygen tank, knowing the end was near. (And now, as an adult, realizing the dread in my mother’s heart that must have increased tenfold when she saw my reaction.)
Or that chilly January night just months later, when Dad woke up all four of us kids in the middle of the night to tell us she was gone.
Memories like clinging to her silk comforter and not letting anyone wash it even though it smelled like urine — precisely because it smelled like urine — which is how her room smelled at the end and it was the only piece of her we had left.
In memory of Mom, in memory of her spunk, even in memory of these odd memories themselves brought to you by Lou Gehrig’s disease, our family established Chocolate Day.
Each year on the anniversary of her death, no matter where we are or what we’re doing (hi, future bride mid-fitness plan here), we spend the day bingeing on the food so beloved by my mother that nothing — not even paralysis and a feeding tube — could stop her from sneaking little bites with her 7-year-old daughter.
We’re on year seventeen since the original Chocolate Day.
For a long time, the day was — quite literally — sugar-coated anguish. But that gradually changed as I delved deeper into the faith my mother so adored and discovered the stunning revelation of the Communion of Saints.
What used to be a frigid day filled with hellish flashbacks has turned into a day-long chat with my mom over chocolate and across the veil.
In memoriam.
11 thoughts on “Chocolate Day”
This is so beautiful! Thank you for sharing your sweet memories.
I cannot fathom, but I’m filled with immense hope at the idea that a painful tradition can turn into such a beautiful reminder. Thank you for sharing!!
This is so beautiful. There are tears in my eyes.
Beautiful and true!
Thank you for sharing this beautiful tradition and the touching memories behind it.
This is so beautifully written. Thanks for sharing your special memories and for reminding us to make the most of the little joys in life. There are real tears in my eyes now.
The twist and turns of letting go and holding on! This is what memories are made of.
Thank you Ms. Forest for heart sharing!
My sweet loving departed mother deserves a chocolate day too! Thanks for sharing this idea!
Such a beautiful piece and what a wonderfully sweet tradition
I remember those moments like it was yesterday. She got me to try some of her beloved dark chocolate and it’s still my favorite today.
Thank you for sharing. Beautifully said. Love you!
So incredibly beautiful. I have happy tears for those wonderful memories mixed with deep sadness for your loss.