To my mother on her birthday,
Well, here it is again.
It is the 8th birthday since you’ve been gone. It is the 8th 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 4th 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 4th 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 4th 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.
