“It's my first Mother's Day since my son died. I'll spend it hugging strangers.” by Constance Garcia Barrio

Dogged by alcohol, cough syrup, and schizophrenia, my son, my only child, sometimes forgot Mother’s Day. But even without a card or call, his love felt present and seemed redoubled in the next warm, sloppy hugs he gave me. As I face my first Mother’s Day since his death in September at age 47, it’s those hugs I long for.

Trying to keep my son safe and alive anchored my life for the 22 years from his first psychotic break until he died. Despite his demise, the mothering has kept marching through my heart. It has refused to acknowledge the memo. I had to do something with that maternal energy, or I knew I would get sick.

Renewing my Children’s Defense Fund membership felt good, but remote. I needed human presence. Most of my friends stopped hugging me in condolence one or two months in, and my closest kin, my nephews, live in Washington, D.C. So I began volunteering as a library assistant at a nearby elementary school. It buoys my spirit to help second graders find books about mountains, dinosaurs, or Rosa Parks, or to see a little girl tottering but smiling, clutching an enormous book about birds, her favorite animal.

“Do I have a favorite bird? Maybe the blue jay,” she said.

I had a rollicking good time when I read The Cat in the Hat Comes Back to kindergarteners for Read Across America week on March 2. I laughed with them at the ever-smaller cats under the hats, and I loved it when the children surged from their floor mats toward me as I pointed out the mess the cat had made. It was a visit well worth the heartache of recalling my son at 5 years old.

The urge to give care has sprung surprises on me. One Saturday at the end of autumn, I hopped on the train to Atlantic City — not to feed slot machines, but to take off my shoes, roll up my jeans, and pray with my feet in the water. In the Yoruba religion, which originated in West Africa and spread throughout the Americas with the slave trade, there is an orisha — a spirit or angel — known as Yemaya, the orisha of the sea and maternity. When my son was alive, I could persuade him sometimes to accompany me to the Shore. When he and I waded in the sea together, I prayed for guidance for me and help and mercy for him. During my first Christmas season without him, I put my feet in the water and prayed for mercy for myself, for my heart to settle into acceptance. I left an offering of silver coins.

Back up on the Boardwalk, headed to the station to catch the train home, I came upon a 30-ish-looking man sitting and begging. I gave him enough for a good cup of coffee — the day was cold. Then, before I left, I surprised myself by saying: “Let me be your mother for a moment.”

He was white and I’m Black, but it didn’t seem to matter. When he nodded yes, I said a short prayer for him to soon find whatever he needed to set his life on a good path. He smiled. We clasped hands. Something eased inside me as we said goodbye.

A few weeks later, on Locust Street, I noticed a young Black man, about 6-foot-2, with a handsome but careworn face. He exuded charm and swagger but wore shabby clothes. He whipped a small red box out of his coat and murmured to me, as if sharing a confidence.

“Top-of-the-line cologne,” he said, “just $5.”

“No, thanks.”

“Please.” He stepped closer, his voice more urgent. “I need $2 to get home.”

“Wait a second.”

I stepped into the vestibule of a nearby building to get out money, willing to be a good Samaritan but not a purse-less one. Outside again, I gave him a few dollars. Then I got curious.

“Are you from here?”

“South Philly.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. How old are you?

“Seventy-six.” Then, once more, I surprised myself by letting these words burst out of me: “I had a son, but he died last year.”

At this, the young man’s shuffle-and-jive fell away, and he gave me the kind of hug I hadn’t had since my son’s death. I could mother again, if only for a moment. This man needed nurturing, and I needed to give it. The remembered feel of it sustained me through the week.

This Mother’s Day, I’m going to pocket a fistful of dollar bills, jump on the 23, ride to Center City, and hope to luck up on a hugging panhandler. It’s as close as I’ll come to touching my son again.

This piece was originally published on May 6, 2023, in the Philadelphia Inquirer.