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Calling my mother on Sunday morning had become a ritual ever since my dad died more than a decade ago.

When Mom answered the phone, her first words would always be the same: "How's the weather out there?" Familiar words spoken with a familiar voice.

Today, it will be different. This will be my first Mother's Day without my mom. She died last November. I can't even get a dial tone at her home near Chicago. The phone line Mom had used for 54 years is now disconnected.

I'm just glad last year's Mother's Day was so special. I didn't even have to call. I was there in person. My wife Leslie and I spent five days treating Mom to dinner at her favorite restaurants and buying her the quintessential Mother's Day gift -- a colorful hanging plant for her backyard patio.

Before leaving, I took a group photo of us, our three smiling faces peering at the screen of my digital camera as I tried my best to frame a portrait. That was the last shot I would take of my 88-year-old mother. Two months later she would be diagnosed with lung cancer and photographs would become a thing of the past.

I'm lucky we had that time to share together.

I know of others -- one is far too many -- who never call or see their mothers, not even on Mother's Day. They have been out of touch for weeks, for months. Maybe it's because an angry word was spoken in haste, or a perceived wrong was never forgiven. The reasons don't matter; the results do.

Don't get me wrong; mothers can drive their children crazy at times. It's why they're mothers, right? I remember my older sister back in high school having bitter arguments with Mom about the friends she was hanging out with.

One night, after another yelling match, my sister smashed a drinking glass against a wall and stormed out the front door, vowing never to return. It was great drama for my brother and me, but my sister's flight lasted only a minute or so. It was winter, and bitterly cold outside. She returned, her head hung low.

Those were tough times, but years later, my mom and sister would become best of friends.

Even when we do reach adulthood, mothers still find fault with how we are handling our lives. They always wonder whether you will ever get a job and move out of the house. Then when you finally do land a job, they complain it's not good enough for you. Or worse yet, that you will be a miserable failure.

I went through all of that with my mom. She said hurtful things -- there's no question about that. Life is filled with these painful moments. But I never held it against her for long.

Not even during the heady days in the late 1960s when I was attending college in Meadville, Pa. Back then the Vietnam War had turned the country inside out, and had turned sons and daughters against parents and students against institutions. Yes, we thought we had all the answers. I wrote polemics against higher education and the irrelevancy of our upbringing, and would hand out these rambling commentaries to fellow students and faculty.

During these days of protest, I remember my parents visiting and Mom staring at me in utter bewilderment. "How long have you had that mustache?" she asked. It's a question she would raise for the next decade or so until she finally gave up, realizing I would never be the clean-shaven son she had expected.

But this strained relationship still didn't stop me from remembering her 50th birthday. She had traveled with Dad and several other couples to Spain for a whirlwind trip in 1969. Though I couldn't reach her by phone, I wanted to send her something special, a peace offering of sorts.

So I headed down to a florist near the college and told the clerk I wanted to send a bouquet to my mom. I hauled out a world atlas, and together, we plotted where my mom would be on April 7. She had left Madrid and was headed for a small town in the middle of nowhere. I asked the clerk if it was possible to get the flowers there. She smiled. Anything's possible if you truly want it, she said.

Late in the afternoon, on her 50th birthday, my mom walked into her room in a small hotel in the middle of Spain and found a vase of bright spring flowers. She held the flowers in her hands and cried.

That was my best call ever.

But really, any call is the best call if it's the first in a long time. Not much has to be said. The important thing is the act, the putting aside of past differences, and above all, forgiving yourself. That's the hardest part -- forgiving not only the things your mom might have said or done, but to forgive yourself for how you reacted. Forgiveness has to begin at home, in your heart.

The late Rev. William Sloane Coffin, a social activist and modern-day prophet, once wrote, "Love measures our stature: the more we love, the bigger we are. There is no smaller package in all the world than that of a man all wrapped up in himself."

So for those of you who are no longer in touch with your moms, whether the distance has been a week or a lifetime of regrets, take the first step. Make the call. Or arrive in person, as I did last year, and greet her with the best gift of all -- your smiling face.

We do not know what tomorrow may hold, but we do know what silence and separation will bring -- a chilling of the heart. Who needs that? Life is hard enough without losing a mother who is still alive.

* Coordinating Editor Spencer Hatton can be reached at 577-7670 or shatton@yakimaherald.com.