Mother’s Day 2018

It’s been eight and a half years. The days leading up Mother’s Day still take me by surprise. I don’t think about it much anymore. Maybe that’s why it’s always such a kick in the nuts when it arrives. The whole of Mother’s Day weekend was special to you. As it should have been, you were a phenomenal mother to four amazing children.

I wish you were here to see them. They’ve grown into such fine young adults. They seem to be coping with losing you a whole lot better than I have. You’d be proud. And you’d be the best grandmother ever.

Yea, you’ve got a granddaughter now. A feisty, strong willed little angel that reminds me so much of her mother that I time travel at every visit. You were supposed to be here for these days. You talked about them all the time.

I’m still not really able to process the emptiness. Not in it’s full force, anyway. Maybe that’s why I’ve been running away from it for all these years. I can’t risk it catching up to me. Every time I let it get too close (like it does every Mother’s Day) it trips me up. I fall face down, bloody my nose and stumble around in a fog for the next couple of days.

I’ve tried therapy. It seems to work, for awhile. The wounds heal over with time but then those certain days come around again. And it’s like the stitches all get ripped out and the grief sweeps over me like a tsunami. Maybe someday there will be someone at my side that can handle the torrent. So far, they’ve all been swept away in the flood. I leave a trail of tears and broken hearts in my wake. It’s asking too much from another human. And yet I keep reaching for someone who can laugh in the face of the storm. I know I don’t have strength to do it alone. I can barely hang on long enough to catch my breath until the tide rolls out again.

You were supposed to be here for this! It was the grand culmination of your life plan. So I’ll have dinner on Mother’s Day all by myself and try not to let the memories wash the food off my plate.

Happy Mother’s Day, Liz. You were the love of my life and I still miss you every day.

father, motorcyclist, old retired guy who’s just a little lost on a blue marble corkscrewing its way to oblivion

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