I keep writing this over and over and I still come back to the same start: There are a half-dozen grapefruit on your memorial tree right now, Mom. We'll probably have them for New Year's Eve. I think if you knew you would love that.
It's been seven months since you died, and it still doesn't feel quite real to me. I keep thinking of things I want to make for you: a pair of crocheted slippers to keep your feet warm, a pretty lap quilt, a wall hanging full of flowers that will never die. I have things here that I did make for you but finished too late to send, and I don't know what to do with them now. The other day I was at the store and saw an outfit in your favorite color and thought, "Mom would love that" before I remembered you aren't here to wear the clothes I buy for you any more.
It's not denial, exactly, it's more like I keep forgetting that you are beyond me.
I'll try to be happy today. It's the day you were born, and the grapefruits are growing, and my life has settled down again into comfortable rhythms of work and play. I am in a better place in my head than I was seven months ago, so there's that. Wherever you are, if you can, be happy with me.
2 comments:
Hugs to you, my friend. I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make it easier. I will tell you, it took close to ten years probably before I finally stopped picking up the phone to call my mom. I'd do it automatically, without even thinking about it. Eventually, it will change for you too. *hug*
It's an odd thing losing a loved one. It's like knowing they're in the next room but you can never reach them. As I get older (and lose more friends and family) I've become more appreciative of those around me. I want them to know they made a difference.
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