To my mother on her birthday...

To my mother on her birthday,

Well, here it is again.  It is the 8^th birthday since you’ve been gone.  It is the 8^th time we have “celebrated” without you.  I have been feeling the heaviness for a few days.  You’d be forty-nine today and I know you’d be panicking.  You made it obvious that you didn’t want to “get old” and you managed to escape it.  You had barely aged when you died, you definitely didn’t look 41 at the time.  You were still channeling your inner (and outer) barbie doll.

Thinking back over all of your birthdays, it was the day weekend week month that brought you the most joy.  You always turned back into a giddy little girl, flashed your bright smile, and giggled.  Your excitement always brought me such joy.  The 4^th of July was always one of my favorite holidays because of it.  Yes, celebrating our country’s independence is great, but celebrating you was even better. 

Trying to buy you a gift was always super difficult.  You always had whatever you needed and wanted.  There was so much pressure because your love language was gift giving, and you were perfect at it.  I had always wanted to show you exactly what you meant to me through the perfect thoughtful gift, and I frequently had to get creative. Willow trees spoke to your heart, as did photos of the kids, and plaques; but it was difficult to be original because you deserved the best.

The 4^th of July is one of the loneliest days now that you’re gone.  We had always spent it with you, in my whole life I only missed two of your birthdays.  It was always a big occasion with a lot of food and usually a group of people.  Without you it is only us, just like life.  We are an island.  Everyone around us celebrates the 4^th with friends or family, but we sit here feeling the emptiness without you.  We see photos on social media of gatherings and barbecues, smiles and sparklers.  Yet here we are alone. 

You were the glue that held the family together.  You were the sun and we all revolved around you.  Without you we have all just fallen far away from one another, each stumbling in the dark unsure where to go from here.  It is cold and remote; the gloominess threatens to take over everything.  We miss you, mom.  It is so complicated without you.  You brought so much joy to our lives.

So, with all this being said, I love you and I miss you, mom.  I know you’re celebrating today.  You’re happy and cheerful. You’re dancing and singing with a peanut butter jar as a microphone, and I just wish we could be there with you.  I want to grill out with you, make you your cake, make ravioli salad, and laugh with you.  Your love language was gift giving (and receiving) and my love language is food.  I loved making you your favorite things, and I so badly wish that I could do that for you today.  When we bought our house, I pictured entertaining people in it, I imagined having a community and friends.  Yet, we are always here alone.  We are always here without you.

Happy birthday, mom.  I love you.

message in a bottle

Have you ever just longed for something from deep within your soul?  Yeah, that’s me right now with the beach.  I have been pining for the beach with so much energy, it has been consuming.  I can hear the waves, smell the tantalizing salt in the air, feel the damp breeze on my skin.  If I close my eyes tight I can truly transport my senses to Newport, I am tickled by the sand between my toes, I watch as the sea gulls fight over crumbs nearby, and I easily let all of my worries go.  Most of all, I feel closer to her here.

March approaches quickly and without warning, it comes as an uninvited guest.  Nothing I do keeps it at bay, and it brings all the heartache and sadness along for the ride.  Memories that seemed more distant become flashbacks like they happened yesterday.  The anxiety and PTSD reawaken, and I beg to run away.  I need to run away.  I feel safe by the ocean, there is peace there, I can let go and rest with the salt and the sand.

We left her there, her ashes.  She is a part of it now and going there has moments of sadness but I am mostly enveloped in calm.  I long for her embrace every day, and I feel it there when the sun shines down on me and kisses my skin.  I experience her presence with the giggles of children touching the cold water and squealing as they run from the waves.  I can envision her smile as the sun sets for the day, with the beauty that radiates the skies captivating her senses.  She taught me to love it and while it is harder without her, it also helps her live on. 

This year is filled with extra ache as the journey to visit cannot be made, and it physically hurts.  The loneliness is intense knowing that I cannot escape this year.  The reality that I cannot make new memories in place of the old ones leaves me with added yearning for distraction.  I do not want to be stuck here, trapped in my pain.  Missing her is too intense, her absence is to great a chasm to get trapped in and I fear I will get stuck inside. 

This is why I have avoided the pain these 7 years, the fear of getting held there permanently has led me to bottle it all up and send it away at the ocean.  Some day the bottle will float back to me, but the fear is too great now.  I am still not ready to open that bottle even though it is about to overflow.  It needs to stay shut for now, until I am stronger.  Someday I will be stronger, until that day I need to escape to the beach.