the divide is great

It's hard to remember that the people we love the most are dead. Sometimes it seems like everything is normal. Maybe they're back in Idaho, going about their business. Maybe they're singing songs in their own language with inflection that reminds you exactly of the parts of their speech that you love. It's hard sometimes to mourn. Those people we lose still fill the space that they occupy, but the energy is different. The room my mom spent her final days in, has returned to the cave where I go to do my guy stuff - tuning guitars, oiling various things and inspecting climbing equipment. The gravity in there is returning to normal after one year, five months and two days. My wife is pregnant with the child my Mom spent her entire life saving love for. I think about which story I'll tell my son or daughter first to introduce them to their dead grandmother. I wonder which stories my sisters will tell my child when it comes time to introduce him or her to their own version of our mother.
My mom was a tender, vivacious woman with an abundance of passion and enthusiasm. She believed in striving. She did not fear hard work. She listened to the music she played on the stereo. She was a terrible cook, but for some reason I love that about her.
I think about her everyday.