Joyce

Mother’s Day has a way of opening little drawers in memory you didn’t even realize were still there.

A scent. A voice. A sentence floating in from somewhere unseen.

About this time last year, Terry’s health was declining quickly. His words, once so sharp and funny, began playing hide-and-seek with him. He had so much to say, and somehow language had decided to become difficult. Rude, honestly.

Some days he was clear as morning light. Other days, there was a fog in his eyes, like he was halfway between two rooms and not entirely sure which one he was meant to be in.

Then one day, very softly, he asked, “Has Mom left?”

I remember pausing.

“Honey,” I said, “Mom hasn’t been here.”

At least, not in the conventional, visible-to-the-average-human sense.

At the time, I thought he was simply confused. But looking back now, I’m not so sure. I like to think Joyce was doing what mothers do best, even across dimensions apparently, dropping by to check in on her boy.

Just making sure everything was in order.

Maybe fluffing a spiritual pillow or two.

We didn’t know then that Terry’s earthly chapter was nearing its final pages. Life is funny that way. It rarely sends a formal announcement.

Joyce was one of the first people I spoke with after Terry proposed to me, right after I visited him in Tucson. I was nervous. Meeting a future mother-in-law, even by phone, feels a little like showing up for an audition you desperately hope not to fail.

But Joyce made failure impossible.

She was cheerful, open, warm, and instantly welcoming. Within minutes, I felt as though I’d known her much longer.

I remember thanking her for Terry.

Not in a casual way.

I truly meant it.

And without hesitation, Joyce said, “Thank you for being with my son.”

Simple words. But I’ve carried them with me ever since.

Over the years, Joyce and I spoke often. She loved books, which immediately placed her in my highly selective category of Excellent People. So naturally, I sent her many.

Terry told me so much about her life. Joyce had polio at a very young age. Her husband left, and she raised four children on her own while navigating a body that made everything harder.

And still, somehow, she kept going.

No applause. No complaints. Just grit, love, and a stubborn refusal to surrender.

As a little boy, Terry was her “cane.” She would hold onto his neck to help move around. Imagine that. A seven-year-old boy serving as both mobility device and entertainment committee.

He tried endlessly to make her laugh.

And eventually, he became exceptionally good at it.

I suspect Terry’s legendary sense of humor was not accidental. It was forged early, like a useful household tool.

A survival skill with punchlines.

Later in life, after witnessing his mother’s suffering for years, Terry developed MS while still young himself. Life can be wildly confusing in its assignments.

But if there is one thing I know with certainty, it is this.

Joyce and Terry never gave up on each other.

Not once.

Their love was steady, loyal, and beautifully unbreakable.

Today is Mother’s Day.

So I celebrate Joyce.

And somewhere beyond what we can see, I like to imagine Terry is with his mom again.

No wheelchairs. No MS. No polio. No pain.

Just laughter.

Probably Terry is still trying to make her laugh.

And I have no doubt, finally succeeding every single time.