The memories come flooding back in waves, drowning me in a tide of emotion.
I was in 9th grade, following Steven around like a bunny, and there was Ma, shaking her head and saying, “Why do the smart girls always fall for the bad boys?”
In 10th grade, she taught us how to research—and gave me a failing grade on a paper. It forced my parents to let me go to the library, and in that way, she opened up a whole new world to me, far beyond the constraints of the religion I was being raised in.
In my senior year, I remember her piling eight of us kids into her Ford Escort to take us to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
She always seemed to just know. When I was 16, graduating from high school and dreading the future my parents had planned for me, she signed my yearbook, “Don’t ever take the easy way out.”
She was always there for me, especially when my brother couldn’t be.
My brother and I were both so… broken.
When my son was two and I had to have surgery on a Workers’ Comp injury (with no income coming in) she filled my refrigerator. When my son was seven, she realized I hadn’t bought clothes for myself in years. Things were getting threadbare, and she helped me get a few things so I didn’t look quite so ragamuffin at work.
She taught me how to write.
How to read with feeling.
How to survive when I knew that leaving my family was the only way I could truly live.
She healed my heart more times than I can count. Even knowing there would be scars, she gave me reasons to keep going.
I once told her I could never repay everything she’d done for me.
She said I could, by paying it forward. That’s what she wanted.
When I finally went back to school and earned my Master’s in Education, I don’t think anyone was prouder than she was. And when I joined Mensa? She made me see that the only one who ever doubted my intelligence was me.
She gave me parenting advice.
Life advice.
She was more of a mother to me than my own.
She never yelled, never demeaned, never overly criticized. She appealed to my intellect. She taught me that it’s not just okay, it’s essential to think for myself, to question everything, and to never settle for less when I’m capable of more.
She loved my son.
From the time he could talk, he always called her “Mommy’s Teacher.”
She used to joke about it:
“When I die, they’re going to ask him, ‘Who passed away?’ and he’s going to say, ‘Mommy’s Teacher.’
And they’ll ask, ‘What was her name?’
And he’ll look at them like they’re crazy and say, ‘Mommy’s Teacher!’”
She passed away today, and there’s a gaping hole where my heart should be.
I know I’ll have to stop crying eventually.
But not today.
And probably not tomorrow.
Linda “Ma” Mosher, you are loved more than you ever knew.
To some, you were just their English teacher.
To me, you were who I wanted to be when I grew up.
The stars will shine brighter now that you’re among them.
