The Big Fat Beautiful Imprint that my Dead Mom has Forever Left on my Brain and Body

There are few places in this world that make me fully feel my Mom again.

When Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor describes grief, she says the brain carries a map. It knows where the dining room table is, even after it’s gone. The imprint still exists in the brain, and, I believe, in the body too. That’s how loss feels. Like Mom was here. She was so fucking here. But now she’s only here, in my brain and my body. When I go to these places, she comes alive again. She isn’t here physically, but in certain locations, I can feel her in every step. I feel free, light, like I can fly. Like I can do anything.

I ride my bike to the Sloatsburg community field, and it becomes my playground. I’m twenty-one again, doing backflips on the monkey bars. I swing so high on the swing set that I feel like I could touch the moon. I imagine becoming a pilot just to feel this every single day.

I remember playing here with my brothers, everything still standing where it used to be. I remember walking here with Mom after she lost her hair to chemo, and the photo on the bench where I kissed her cheek and felt so fucking proud to be her daughter.

When I arrive at my childhood home, something heavy disappears from my shoulders. I feel safe again, capable of anything. My creativity returns. I want to dance and sing.

Mom’s imprint is still on the couch, the far-right seat, her seat. “Get out of my seat, Jillian.” “Clean ya room, Jillian.” “You’re a pain in my ass, Jillian.” She’d yell it, so endearingly, in her loud Brooklyn accent all the time. I can still see her dancing in front of the TV again, so awkwardly, without a care in the world.

It’s easier to laugh here, to believe everything will be okay here. She told me that all my life: “Jillian, relax. You’ll be fine.” Big sigh. Those words were all I needed every time. Her tough love. She’s right, I’ll be okay. We were so opposite, Mom and I. The yin to my yang.

And then the planes, the exhilaration, the freedom. Mom would hand me a tootsie roll pop on take off so that our ears didn’t hurt so bad with the cabin pressure. We’d cheers our tootsies and include the stranger sitting in the aisle seat next to us as if they were already family. 

We’d joke and banter in a way that would make people ask if we were sisters. Flying on planes was easy and lovely and ethereal. It brought us to bigger and better places, more adventures, more life. It brings me alive again.

And oh, NYC. Dirty, messy, beautiful New York City. My mom’s sarcasm, her brutal honesty, and her “forget about it” attitude were all born here. And Brooklyn. God. I cry every time I drive through it. Hot Fun in the Summertime plays on the radio, and I see Uncle Greg’s algae-filled pool again and Mom’s childhood home. Helen’s house in front of Marine Park. Family, blood-related or not. Community. Mom told me all about the train running above her childhood house, the mice inside that they couldn’t get rid of, her mile walk to Abraham Lincoln High, and the candy store she stopped in every morning. I envision it all as I drive through her stomping grounds. 

The city that made mom the tough Brooklyn lady who raised me. I feel at home in a place where I’ve never lived. Overstimulated, maybe, but safe. I know these streets. I know this grit. This is my catwalk. Everyone is family here. I’ll be okay.

I realize that even without her here, Mom exists in everything. Mom’s imprint is still here. In so many facets. In so many places. In so many ways. I wish Mom could’ve met so many people. I wish she were still physically here today.

If I ever saw her again, I think I’d cry for three days straight — tears of joy. I think I would laugh like I haven’t in years. I think I would feel like all is right in the world again, and everything will truly be okay. I think I would stop feeling worried. I know that I would stop needing to look for her in my dreams. What’s left of my Mom is so many beautiful memories and heart-wrenching nostalgia. A lot of missing, a lot of loving, and a lot of living.