3

I’m going to start naming my blog entries like Adele names her albums, but instead of an age, it’ll be a death anniversary.

Oh come on. Dark humor is what gets us through!

January is always hard in general. Sorry for you January birthdays! It’s cold, dark, and the new year, while full of possibilities, also reminds us of what isn’t possible. One more new year starting means another year my mom never got to see.

I’ve been seeing the number “708” a lot lately, which was my house number growin gup. I usually take that as a “hello” from one of my parents, which makes me smile. I even saw it yesterday on her anniversary when I glanced at the time on my phone, in between the oreos I was eating in her honor.

Lately, I’ve been struck by the fact that my daily interactions with my parents start and end around a shelf in my room. There are two pictures of my dad and one picture of my mom. In between the pictures is a bottle with her heart rhythm on a piece of paper inside and next to that her favorite lotion. I put some on when I want to smell her. I say good morning and goodnight to them, sometimes quickly, other times I’ll pause for longer, tell them I miss them, maybe kiss their picture. It’s a little ritual for us. And yet, it’s still so odd sometimes when I think of their existence there on a shelf rather than out in the world. My mom especially. I still have her mapped in her old apartment, only a phone call or short drive away. It still feels like I’ll see her tomorrow or that I’ll swing over after work to have a chat and maybe share a Coke. It still feels like I just saw her, like I just heard her voice, like I just kissed her cheek.

Yet, my body also knows that it has been three years. My body also knows that she is missing from the map in my mind, that she isn’t nearby. I’m familiar with the juxtaposition of grief—the way it both slows down and speeds up time. I’m familiar with the longing and relearning of the world, the heaviness of the feelings and the weight of the tether we carry around while we search for our person to attach it to.

Even if I’m familiar, it’s still all new. Because I’ve never lost my mom before, so this is new. New to watch pain of those around me in a different way—from my siblings also losing their mom, to her best friend losing her, to her grandkids missing her so much. Even if I’m familiar with grief, there’s still a journey here, a processing that has to happen.

Still, I find many moments that make me smile in between the longing. Looking through photos or listening to her favorite Billy Joel songs make me feel closer to her. My oldest niece was enjoying chocolate ice cream in honor of my mom while I enjoyed oreos. She lives on. She lives on in the way my middle niece likes to talk so much, or the way my youngest niece makes a song out of everything. She lives in the laughter I have over making things rhyme that don’t rhyme. Or in the way I talk to my dogs like she talked to our dogs growing up. Or in the way I crave watching The Unsinkable Molly Brown at least once a year.

What a beautiful thing, to live on. Of course, for those left behind, it’s not enough. We want the person! But wow. To live on in so many ways, for so many people and hearts to carry you with them. That is beautiful and amazing. And it sounds just right for her. Becuase she was just that, beautiful.

Love you, mama, to infinity.

(she whispers in Buzz Lightyear voice “And Beyoooonnnd.”)

XO