I never had a mom

I wonder if my mom would be sad to read that.

I know it's not true. I know I had a mom. There are pictures.
And she obviously gave birth to me. And I was six.
So it happened. I had one. And she was great. Everyone says so and I believe it.
But I don't feel it.

Tonight in restorative yoga class, I felt the absence of a mom.
I felt the space, the floating, the absolute lack of any memory or experience of having a mom.
I remember some things: happily sitting on my stool in the kitchen, eating her chocolate mousse, after serving that same chocolate mousse to her friends in her book club who sat in the living room where I wasn't allowed to eat chocolate mousse (white rug), singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow with her in my room on a sunny quiet morning after everyone else had left for school, standing on the side of the road with my grandma as we watched her drive away in a car with a stranger who took her to the garage to get someone to help us fix our flat tire.
But having a mom, being someone's daughter, what I imagine to be that feeling of being loved and taken care of by one's mom- I don't recall that at all.
There is nothing there.
I just don't have any memory of that.
I had a dad and he took care of me and he was there.
But the mom thing- it's just loss and longing and wondering where she is. It just feels like a lot of space, and me, and nothing else.

It's hard to read that title- I never had a mom- because of its truth, its resonance with my experience.
I have to admit that what I really believe is that this truth, the seeing of this truth, will allow me to finally feel that time when I did have a mom.
But for now, it's just true. I never had a mom, not that I remember, not that I feel, I just didn't have one, and that makes me sad.