Written on the one year anniversary of my mom's death
Originally Published September 29, 2024
Mom, one year ago today, your body left.
I have come to think of it as only your body and not you.
Because the “you” is something I am still discovering.
Actively searching out.
Trying to make sense of.
***
People ask me how I am.
But it impossible to put into words.
Because I am okay and I am terrible and I am heartbroken and I am alive and I am grateful.
I am all those things.
In each second.
In every minute.
In all days.
***
Some moments, I am happy and joyful watching the hydrangeas bloom in your garden.
Some moments, I am crashing, hitting rock bottom, knowing you will never plant another flower again.
***
Most moments, I feel broken.
But also here.
Present.
Reassembling myself.
Building something wiser from the pieces of what I now know.
***
The fragments of the past year all blend together.
I am driving you to the hospital to get a chest X-ray.
We are listening to “Wagon Wheel” in my car.
You say it’s a pretty good song.
I turn up the volume and we jam.
Seven nights later, I am holding your hand in the ICU as your lungs stop breathing.
I am taking a picture of your lifeless body so later I can convince myself it actually happened.
I will look at this picture thousands of times before believing it’s true.
On some days, I still don’t believe that the worst thing to ever happen to me, actually did happen.
I am driving home from the hospital in your lime green sweater.
I haven’t washed it since and I might never wash it again.
I am wearing it today.
I can still smell you and I am wildly grateful.
I blink and more moments unfold.
Time is so slippery.
I am laughing.
It’s summer.
We are in Cape Cod and Maine and then hiking in Switzerland as a family—in our new configuration—and we are okay.
We are okay and we will never be okay again.
Both things are true.
***
You are gone but you are here.
Both things are true.
***
Mom, I miss the way you cared about the kids so much.
I miss sharing their days with you.
Their highs and lows.
You lived their joy as your own.
I miss your help and your advice and your home-cooked meals and the chicken salad you would drop off for me just because.
I miss all the “just because things” you did because you were so insanely good.
I miss your hugs.
I miss your steady presence.
I miss your smile.
I miss the way you loved happy hour.
I miss your goofy side after having a few too many drinks.
I miss seeing you with Dad.
I miss Dad having his best companion.
I miss your texts just checking in.
I miss telling you I got home safe.
I miss you needing to hear that I got home safe.
I miss having you fix my ripped clothing. I can’t fix any of it without you.
I miss the way you would say “hi Lis.”
Mostly, I just miss having my mom here on earth.
***
Grief is about polarities.
The ability to hold great sorrow next to tenderness.
Longing with contentedness.
Trauma with gratitude.
My grief has made me more present and attuned.
To beauty.
And to suffering.
To the way nature creates
And lets go.
To the joys of beginnings
And the growth from endings.
To all the things we don’t understand
And the peace that can come from surrendering to the not knowing.
***
Mom, I have survived the past year and some parts have been magical and others have been awful and yet, despite it all, I am here.
And yes, your body is gone.
But I am learning. you are still here, too.
In a different way than you used to be.
But in something eternal.
I am learning the shape of it as we go.
I am learning to accept it as real even when my rational, science brain fights it.
I am learning to be spiritual.
To follow your signs.
To listen when you talk to me.
And Mom, believe me when I say, I trust in you today more than ever before.
