A year ago today, my Mom passed away. She was pretty awesome. There is a depression in the couch, where she spent her final months watching my dogs play and listening to our sounds. She didn't weigh a hundred pounds, but the spot is changed forever. I spent the day reading and listening to music, sitting in her spot. I contemplated doing something to commemorate the occasion, but realized that I don't want to commemorate the occasion of her passing. It represents a soft period at the end of a very sad sentence. A sentence that should have lasted longer - been part of a paragraph. The paragraph should have continued into a beautiful story. Children's voices would be heard laughing and squealing as their grandmother chased them around the yard. Descriptions of sunshine and bike rides would unravel on the page punctuated by quiet moments of beauty and stillness. The description of a woman at peace with the world, satisfied at last and content to spend her days soaking it all in, would meander across the page, like the way she rode her bike uphill. Instead, here I am, writing on this blog for the first time since 2010. The last post was a desperate mantra. Something along the lines of we'll be alright. I told myself that for a long time before I realized that to be alright was not to be the same. I'm still figuring it out. I'll never get to be the same. I can be better.
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My Mom was a kind woman - tough, and kind. She worked hard all of her life to be better and do better. She didn't give up without a fight and she fought until her last breath. Her death was not a peaceful parting from this world. She battled to live, not because she was afraid of death, but rather, because she wanted to live. She had a lot to live for, and a lot to see.
My mom liked to make jokes when things got bad. In 5th grade, I got pretty beaten up in a skateboarding accident. I was nervous about what kids at school would say. She told me to tell them, "you should have seen the other guy." It was a funny way to respond when somebody said you looked beat. She would throw that joke around occasionally. She looked beat after she died, lying there in bed, small and pale. I imagine her now, smiling and making a fist at me - "you should have seen the other guy!" That would look really bad. That guy is probably still nursing his wounds a year later - walking with a limp and complaining any time the barometer drops.
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I miss my mom. I miss her every single day. She was good person to have around.
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