She has been dead for decades, yet I still grieve and feel empty and guilty every Mother's Day.

I cannot remember my mother's presence in my life. She was there, but I cannot remember her physical presence. I cannot remember a hug, a kiss, or my hand being held. I only have old black-and-white pictures to remind me of her appearance and of me with her.

I sometimes wonder if my older sister's stories of her are the only way I know who she was.

There are certain events that I know she must have been present, yet it is as if a big eraser removed her from my memory.

When I was six, I had my tonsils out. I was a real baby and wanted only my mother as I left the hospital. I cannot see her with me.
I remember she loved this old Victorian house. She daydreamed about moving out of public housing and into this big house. I know she told me of her dream, but I only remember standing in front of that house, and I was alone.
Growing up in poverty, she was determined to spoil her kids on Christmas. I remember being delighted with the toys but not her being there.

The day she died, I remember her kneeling sick on the bathroom floor and telling me to return to my friend's house, where I had been playing. I can remember her words, but not her.

Returning to my friend's house, I did not think of Ma, that is, until I heard the ambulance siren.