Two years. 104 weeks. 730 days.
Two years. March 1st. 11:08 pm.
Two years since you left this earth. And nothing has ever
been the same.
I thought once I got past the “firsts” – you know, the first
Christmas, first Mother’s Day, first anniversary of your death …. that things
would get easier. But I guess that depends on your definition of “easier”.
True, the empty feeling isn’t as constant. Once we got one
of each major holiday under our belt and realized we could get through them,
the next ones weren’t quite as bad.
I guess what I didn’t expect is that when that empty feeling
comes, it hits me just the same. It’s sudden, sometimes – surprising, almost.
For whatever reason, you pop into my head. But not, “Oh,
Mom would have loved this” or “Oh, I wish Mom were here” or “Oh, man, Mom would
have a field day with this!” It’s more like my brain – in that moment – can’t
grasp the fact that you’re really, truly gone, and my first thought instead is,
“Mom is gonna love this!” or “Mom’s gonna have a field day with this!” and the
most frequent, “I need to tell Mom about this.”
It still happens – frequently. You’re the first person who
comes to mind whether I just
bought a cute sweater on sale that “called to me”, as you used to say, or if
I’m beside myself with indecision and need a rational voice of reason.
It’s
like when you wake up in the morning and think to yourself, “Something happened
… what was it?” Then you realize what it was and it hits you all over again.
That’s what my brain goes through every time I think of you like you’re still
here then realize you aren’t.
You have left a void that is so vast I know it will never be
filled, and I wish I would have known how important you were to me when you
were still here. I completely took you for granted – as I’m sure most children
do with their parents. I wish I would have been a better daughter to you. I
wish I would have appreciated you more before I knew you were leaving me. I
wish I could have told you better – and sooner – that you were an incredible
mom and I was so lucky God let me be your daughter.
We were nothing if human, that’s for sure. We had our
arguments and our pissing matches. We were both sensitive and so much alike
that we butted heads. But you know what? I knew that no matter what, no matter
how big the problem or need, I could always count on you. Always.
Your
love for me and the other kids was unconditional. Yes, we’d have words. Yes,
we’d need breaks from each other. Yes we’d frustrate each other. But above and
beyond that, it was family that mattered to you. And you would never shun one
of us if we needed you, whether your response was to help or to tell us to get
our heads out of our asses. You were good like that, Mom.
We’re not the same. You kept this family together. We did it because you said so, and once we did, we got along just fine. But it’s
all disjointed now. It sucks. I never understood why you fought so hard to
bring us all together, but now I get it. You were hoping that we’d see that we
needed each other, especially after you were gone. We didn’t get the message,
though.
I think of how I miss you, and it gives me a pit in my
stomach thinking how much Dad must miss you. It’s evident on the surface, but
you know Dad – the strong, silent type. I can only imagine how he feels inside
– that ache you never expected, never wanted and were never ready for.
I’ve said
it hundreds of times – the only thing worse than missing you is watching Dad
miss you. It’s hard to drop him off after dinner and see him fumble with the
key to the front door, then walk in alone. It makes me want to yell, “It’s so
unfair! He needs you back! You two are a team!” But there’s nothing I can do,
other than let him know that I miss you too, and that we still have each other.
You’d be so proud of him, Mom. He’s carrying on your legacy quite famously and
I love doing things with him. I’m a lucky girl to have a dad like him and to
have had a mom like you.
I don’t have a mom.
I want my mom.
I miss you, Mom.
