Broken bone

The Relay for Life event is cool, after all, though I struggle when I get there to assimilate what is actually going on: some people are dressed in costumes, some are manning decorated booths, or hanging out in tents, but most walk the track. The air is full of talking, laughter, and music from the band playing, aptly, "These Boots Were Made For Walking." On my first lap, I avoided looking at the luminarias in actual fear of seeing Mom's name, then glancing down, I noticed that they were alphabetical. "X" then, "Y." Good. I had already passed hers.
No, not good.
Once again, I hadn't noticed. Just like when she was alive, I avoided and broke her loving gaze. I let go during a hug sooner than she. I let go of her hand sooner than she let go of mine. Especially in high school, I knew she loved me. I loved her, I thought, as much as was possible for a daughter to love her mother. Then suddenly I was a grown up with children and responsibilities. Now with a home and family, I was calling her every day for her old recipies, her medical advice, her calming tone, or for the assurance of her belief in me. Where was I for her? At her funeral, everyone who came by to give their condolences spoke of how proud she was of her children. That was nice, but as I sat there it hit me like a door slamming shut: what did I actually DO for her?
I called her on the Saturday that Austin stayed with them. I asked if she would mind to keep Ethan while I went to San Antonio, a job to which she always, without fail, would reply with a strong, "Absolutely!" Today she said, "I don't think I can today, I don't feel very good." It occurred to me at that moment that Mom and Dad were beginning to age. But she went on..."I need to lay down." Why didn't I get in the car and go check on her? Once again, I didn't notice. Looking back on that day, I realize how caught up in my own life I was. I used my children and my hectic life to justify my passing glance, and I regret that.
People on the track pass by talking and laughing. I look at them and cannot ignore the wounded feeling I have. It's like a bone that is broken, that even the very softness of a breath, or the nearness of a hand, can illicit shooting, streaming, pain. As people pass, the breeze from their bodies sends warm, then sharpening pain through me. A familiar heat generates in my throat and eyes as I look down into the white paper bag with her name written on the outside. A candle sits upon the sand inside. I light her candle.