May 5, 2009


Two years ago was my Mom’s last day on this rock. My family and I had spent the last few weeks anticipating the end and on May fifth it came. My beautiful, wonderful, strong, funny, amazing Mom left for a place we couldn’t follow, a place she needed to go. I wanted to stay up all night because if i never went to bed it would never be tomorrow, just a continuation of today and today Mom was here. Tomorrow she wouldn’t be.

Two years later, I miss her. I crave her presence and wisdom. I crave her humor. I miss her voice and the way a room felt with her in it. I don’t really miss her cooking.

When my Mom died, I assured the Princess that my Mom would be able to see us, that she’d still be participating with us in the way she could, but my grown-up skepticism scoffs at what that actually means. Does she watch us? Does she have better things to do? Does she miss us to or is there no such thing? And, the worst still, what if there isn’t a heaven and then there’s nothing at all.

I have picutres of my girls as newborns laying in my Mom’s lap. She was tall with long legs and she’d lay newborns on her lap, their head at her knees so she could look at them. There will be no picture of Baby Bee laying like that. No personal contact. Like Littlebit there will be nothing but stories and unlike Littlebit none that actually involve her. Baby Bee and my Mom will never meet on earth, but I hold on like a fiend to the childish hope that before Baby Bee left Heaven to come to us that she and my Mom got a moment together, to know each other. To decide that, yes, they would have been good friends like my Mom was with the Princess and like she wanted to be with Littlebit (at seven months old, Littlebit was too little to have friends).

Grief is an unknown disease. You can’t predict how it will act and how you will act with it. How it will affect your body or your mind. You don’t know if it will make you grow or mow you down. It is guaranteed to change you.

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