Holidays are really difficult for me. They are filled with fading memories and the
ache of her absence. The funny thing is,
my mom had a way of owning every single holiday. She was born on the 4th of July
and owned that with pride. I can still
see her smiling face lit up by the bursting of fireworks. I think even as an adult she believed they
were partly for her. She owned, and
still owns, that holiday.
She will forever in my mind own Thanksgiving as it was her
favorite holiday. I will never forget
the way she would fight everyone for turkey skin and “her flap” of skin. You know, the flap of skin where the neck is
and there’s always a little stuffing under? Yeah, that was, and still is, “her flap”. She always hovered over the turkey, driving
my grandpa crazy, stealing as much crispy skin as possible while it was being
carved. Even though every Thanksgiving
there was always some sort of argument or some sort of crazy unexpected thing
happen, she always made it special. She
owns Thanksgiving.
At Christmas she always tried to stick to a budget, but
since gift-giving was her love-language, she always went overboard. She always got a glimmer in her eye watching
anyone open the gifts she picked out, because she was a master gift-giver. She could always pick out the perfect “I know
you” gift. She was the queen of finding
a gift that was not on any wish list but was The. PERFECT. Gift. And she always knew what was in every wrapped
present for her. She had a crazy sense
about these things. One year my dad
wrapped presents in boxes that wouldn’t give away what it was. For example, the movie Titanic was in a box
almost as big as I was, and she knew what it was. This particular year she shook a box and
said, “this is the left speaker to my new car audio system.” And it was.
She shook another box and said, “this is my new Bible.” And it was.
And so on. She was a gifted
gift-giver and gift-receiver. And she
always had a child-like excitement about Christmas. She owns Christmas. I know she would enjoy spending it with my
kids.
New Year’s Eve was my parent’s anniversary. I am sure she did this on purpose just to own
another holiday. And probably another
excuse to get presents right after Christmas, but there she had it. She owned another holiday. Some years they celebrated it out of the
house, but a lot of the years they spent New Year’s Eve with Megan and I. We would have a special meal and watch the
ball drop. They always played their
wedding song “Here and Now” by Luther Vandross and it was special. Time with her was always special. Her giggle and her smile, the way she always
got what she wanted, the way she cared about others. She still owns New Year’s Eve.
I am standing on the cliff, the ending of 2016, peering into
the valley of unknown. I am not sure
what 2017 will bring, but I am hesitant to venture into it without her. How do I go another year without her? Will this heartache follow me into the coming
year? How do I continue on in life without
her words of wisdom and tough love? Her
gentleness and caring? My friends have
these moms that they can talk to, that care about them, that feed them, that
hold them. The last time I held her hand
it was ice cold. Her face didn’t look
like her anymore. I remember stroking
her hair because that was the only recognizable thing in that casket.
It all happened so suddenly…it all felt like an out of body experience. And I cannot move past it. I am not any more healed now than I was that
day. I am not in any less shock now than
the day I walked in that house and knew her body was upstairs. We are almost at 6 years later and I am still
stuck. I am a motherless daughter who
desperately needs her mommy. I need her voice
in my life, I need her presence in my life.
A new year, but it is already filled with despair. It is already filled with emptiness. A new year, but she will never be part of
it. The ache will never disappear.
I miss you, mom. I
ache for you, mom. I need you, mom.
