Dear Momma,
How is it that you've been gone 21 years today? There are pictures of you that were taken when you were sick that I don't like to look at very often. Mostly because you are noticeably thinner and you can tell that the jaundice is starting to set in. And you look so sad. I think we all look a little sad in those pictures because we knew that the end was near.
In my 39 years on earth, I didn't think that you would be gone for more than half of it. I didn't think I'd missing you this much either but there are little things that happen during my day that remind of you. Sometimes those little memories make me smile and sometimes I'm so overcome with a soul crushing sadness that I have to swallow the lump in my throat so I can keep going on with my day. Today, though, I'm sitting in the emotion of wishing that you were here.
It sucks. It's completely unfair that you were taken. It's unfair that the doctors didn't find the cancer sooner. It's unfair that life kept moving on without you. I've had my hand over the jar that holds my happiness and unspeakable joy. It has barely anything in it because I don't know if I can bare to be happy or experience unspeakable joy without sharing those experiences with you.
These proverbial emotional walls I have up around me have been insurmountable. I didn't think anyone would have the patience to wait for me to throw over a rope for them to scale the wall or to simply leave the knob-less door open a smidge. Right now I'm literally leaning my head against the door from the safe side of the wall while someone leans against the other side waiting for me to open up a little. Do I let them in? Will they hurt me? What do I do? My dear mother, you would have the answers. You would give me direction in this moment because you experienced this with your own father. The one picture I have of you and him, you look happy. Maybe a little apprehensive, but happy. I need you here to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay and that this person won't break my heart. And if they do, I need you here to tell me that it'll be okay.
Mom, I miss you something fierce tonight. I yearn for those missed experiences that I was supposed to have with you as an adult. Sometimes, when I think of you, the smile on my face gets a little goofy because I know exactly how you'd act when a certain song play. Sometimes, I drown in the memory because it makes me so sad.
Tonight, I'm drowning.
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