For Mom

There are days I don't have to mark on the calendar to remember. Today is one of those days.

I still remember where I was when I heard the news. The feelings that welled up like a volcano about to explode inside of myself before pouring out like lava after what felt like the longest moment of my life. The disbelief that this could be happening. I had just seen you a couple days prior, right before our camping trip. How could you have left this world so quickly, and without saying goodbye?

The drive back to town was long and emotional. I would cry for miles, then stop to compose myself, then cry again. I had so many confusing questions along the way that I wanted to ask. What happened? How did you die? What could have been done to prevent this? Why wasn't I there to help? Upon arrival, a few of these questions were answered, but not all. This was a surprise for everyone, and we were all in shock. There were several moments that followed where I felt as if we were just going through the motions, including the funeral and months afterwards. How is a person supposed to deal with these things? I still, 6 years later, have no idea.

Every year since you passed has been different for me. Some years, I spend today crying in bed eating chocolate cake and begging for a little more time with you. Other years, I smile at all the time we got to spend together before you passed and how we mended our relationship better than I ever expected, flipping through the photos with joy and gratitude. There are also years that have been somewhere in between where I cry a bit but also feel sorta fine. I now leave space for however I feel to arise and be felt by keeping my schedule open as much as possible to allow for that day in bed if I need it. This year, all I know for sure is that I will go to therapy and attend a recovery-based online meeting; I leave the empty space for whatever I may feel that day.

It's on days like today that I find voice messages or videos that have your voice in them, just to hear you one more time. Some tell me that I'm only hurting myself when I do this, and that may be true, but maybe they simply don't understand. I have a recording of a voice mail from Dad that has your voice at the end, inaudibly asking a question before the audio clicks off. I treasure that like nothing else in this world. Old family videos, random videos I've posted online, all of them I watch to see if I hear your voice in the background. Sometimes I have to stop the video because I am sobbing uncontrollably, other times I can watch with a smile and gratitude for those little moments.

The other day, I found a video of you with your cat, Shiva, and the sound of your laughter made me smile. Not a smile on my face for everyone to see, but a smile deep inside of myself, someplace I didn’t think existed anymore, especially after your death. A heart-swelling sort of smile. It was just a video of the cat playing with my shoes, but to me, now, it means so much more. We were watching her, and laughing together. If I would have known then how important your voice is now, I would have questioned you while watching the cat play, to forever immortalize your answers in your own voice.

“What is your favorite…”

“Who do you wish…”

"If you could be someone else for a day..."

The questions themselves don’t really matter, it’s the sound of your voice that matters. Sometimes I think I have forgotten it, then a video or voice file shows up and I am gently reminded that I haven’t forgotten. There have been little pieces about specific situations that I can't remember, but the important things, I can't forget.

There are so many things I cannot forget about you, Mom. I cannot forget how difficult my life was at times, and how I blamed your illness. I cannot forget how I misunderstood you for so long because I didn't take the time to listen to you. I cannot forget the pain I potentially caused you for so long. Most of all though, I cannot forget how loving and caring you always were with me, how you were my biggest cheerleader, and how much I wish you were still here with me every damn day of my life.

I cannot forget that today was the day you died, Mom, but on this day, I'll always remember your life.