Mom

I’ve started this post a hundred times. No, a million. Not being able to write about this has kept me from being able to write about anything here on Tibbittsville for quite some time.

It’s silly, but it has to be perfect. It has to have the perfect beginning, middle and end. There’s so much I want to say. What do I say. How do I say it.

But the words just never seem to come.

But it’s time, I think I’m ready, so here goes.

My mother died a year ago today. I somehow survived one full lap around the sun without my guiding light. In some ways, it seems like more than a year has passed since she died. Her absence is part of my daily life now. But there are still times when the wound still feels fresh. Losing her so suddenly has left me feeling very empty, alone and completely shattered.

So, I faked it.

I smiled through the crippling pain. I laughed through the unrelenting heartache. I rejoiced through the hot tears that burned my cheeks. I didn’t curl up in the fetal position to mourn my mom because she never gave me that example during her two week duel with cancer.

Even though my mom is no longer here, she showed me the way. And I still ache for her guidance every day.

Losing a mother is a pain that cannot be described in words. It is impossible to move on from the memory of losing the woman who sometimes sacrificed happiness in her own life so that you could have a better one. A mother’s love is truly irreplaceable.

Mom, you died when Lucas was four years old. I’m so grateful that you were able to experience what it’s like to be a Nana and so sad that the time was short. I recently made a photo collage of you and Lucas – I’m so thankful that I had so many photos to choose from. I told Lucas he could put it anywhere in his room. He chose to put it on his bookshelf facing his bed. He told me that he wanted to see you. He knows who are and he remembers. He remembers going to the beach with you and Pepaw in the motorhome. He knows your body stopped working because you got cancer and he knows you’re in heaven. I think he understands.

Your absence is still felt every day in everyday moments. When I see Lucas with his Mimi it makes my heart ache that he can no longer share that same special relationship with you. When I see a mother and daughter shopping together and sharing a joke. When I’m lying in bed sick and it feels as though no one is as concerned about me as you used to be. When a new motherhood challenge rears it’s ugly head and I can no longer pick up the phone for motherly advice.

A mother is your champion in the corner, the person who always has your back.

I miss that most of all.

I’m worried that I might forget the look of your face, the way your face lit up a room when you smiled, the sound of your voice, your infectious laugh and the warmth of your hugs.

But I can keep your memory alive by sharing stories about you.

No matter how many years go by, sweet Mama, I will never forget the way you made me feel. So safe, so comfortable, so happy, so loved.

How lucky we all were to know you —and most of all for me to call you mom.

Sometimes I can’t believe you are no longer here. I have loved you every second of every day and you are always, always on my mind.

I love you, I miss you, I am so proud that you were mine.