{sixty-four}

Its kind of funny.  This spring, my facebook feed was obsessed with a giraffe named April who was about to give birth.  I would see posts sharing the live feed of April pacing and sitting and pacing and sitting.  Here lately, I feel like April . Something just doesn't feel right and I can't quite get settled.  I also feel like everyone is watching and waiting.  Watching and waiting for the big moment.  To be honest, so am I.  In my experience, this kind of wait always ends with a great explosion before picking up the pieces and moving on.  I'm not sure that's the case this time.  I think this wait is permanent.

I have a hard time admitting it. I’ve lost joy. I know life isn’t over and there are plenty of happy times ahead, but I truly can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard it hurt. Wait. Yes I can. It was Christmas 2016. It was one month after mom’s diagnosis. My nuclear family was gathered together for the first time in many years. We were dressed in Santa #teamred shirts and headed to my Aunt Lynda’s for Christmas dinner. We arrived and realized Mom and Dad were delayed. When they arrived, daddy had a very guilty look on his face. After much teasing and suggestions on why they were late, we learned the real story.  Turns out they had spent the whole day wearing the wrong #teamred shirt. They were actually wearing each other’s shirt. Mom’s was a little too big and Dad’s was a little snug. What a perfect problem. So what does a married couple of 44 years do?  Pull over on the side of the road and swap shirts!

I don’t know why but this story brought me so much joy. They were both so proud they’d swapped shirts in the front seat of their Cadillac. It was much fun and we had a great chuckle about it. I remember watching my dad laugh until he cried (dad's signature move), and thinking I was glad we could all still laugh after mom's diagnosis.

This picture was taken on the return flight from mom and dad's 40th anniversary trip to Punta Cana.  Tate and Lily were continuing their flight from Atlanta and going to spend a few weeks with mom and dad in NY.  I remember thinking as they walked away that I couldn't imagine missing something more than I did in that moment. I felt my heart was walking away from me, one step at a time.

I was wrong.  I could miss something as much.  And in this case, the missing is permanent.

I remember her 40th. I drove home to TN. We had an argument at the end of the weekend. It’s the last argument I remember between us. The only arguing we did over the past 20 years was about me taking care of myself.  She would tell me I needed to eat better and get more rest.  I would give anything to argue with her again. 

Life moves on and so do people. The truth is I’ve had a hard enough time putting one foot in front of the other so I’m not quite sure how to actually move on. I woke up Sunday morning and realized I had to celebrate. The fact of the matter is Mom would far rather celebrate her birth than remember her death.  I have a wonderful husband, two amazing kids, and more loving friends and family than I deserve.  And the truth is, that's more than enough.  I'm in this new place where I can feel so much happiness and so much emptiness all in the same breath.  And that's perfectly okay.  It makes me value the things I have so much more.

Happy 64th Mama!  You lived 15,895 beautiful days.

You are loved.  You are missed.  And I'm so glad you were born.

Red

I haven’t written in awhile. And to be honest, I don’t really feel like writing now. My head has somehow convinced my heart that writing will give my words an exit from the whirlwind they’ve been on lately. 

It’s been a month. 

A month without our morning talks. A month of sorting out paperwork. A month without her Facebook comments. A month wearing her wedding band. 

A month of our new normal. 

The thing is there was nothing normal about being her daughter so it’s incomprehensible figuring out how to live without her. 

I know people often say their mom is their best friend.  I would never say that.  To me, she was so much more.  I had the blessing of a mother who was the greatest human on the planet.  Today, I found something she had written down.  I assume she read it and wanted to remember it.  For me, it summed up her life perfectly.

"May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy."

I only saw her angry once in my adult life and it was last year. Dad tried to sneak blueberries in her morning smoothie and she was NOT happy about it. She stormed through that living room like there was a bee in her bonnet. Poor daddy didn’t stand a chance. 

I do recall some instances when we were young where her red hair got the best of her. They almost all revolved around her kids and sports. I remember my senior year we played in the sub-sectionals at McAvoy Park. I stole second and slid into a hard tag. My helmet flew off and by the time I came to, mama was standing over me in her heels and suit. Apparently she had bounded down the bleachers and had choice words for the shortstop who, in her opinion, used “excessive tagging”. 

She had a laugh that would fill up a room. It was a head tilted back, mouth wide open, belly laugh that made you feel her joy. I heard it most often in the presence of my brothers. They would say something inappropriate, she would laugh hysterically and then scold them and tell them they were “not right.”  I heard it just last week coming from my daughter while she was FaceTiming a friend. It makes me happy that I can hear mom’s vivacious laugh through my twelve year old. Her spirit is nestled way deep in our Lily Bean. 

I learned my greatest lessons from her.  

She taught me to not only love, but to say it often and love unconditionally.  
She taught me to not only laugh, but to laugh so hard that tears roll down my face.
She taught me to not only play, but to dance whenever I got the chance.
She taught me to not only pray, but to believe in my prayers and trust his hand in my life.

The other day I was driving down the road when one of her favorite songs came on the radio.  It immediately took my breath away.  As I sat in my car sobbing, the final verse came through loud and clear...

"Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose."

I miss her. I miss her so much that my heart sometimes feels it will burst out of my chest. And just when I feel the tears well up, I hear her voice “Don’t cry sis. I’m right here.”  

And I know she is.