Twelve Years

In the early morning hours of August 30, 1997, my world was turned upside down. I had just been married about 8 hours prior, which is enough to turn anyone's world on its head. That meant moving to a new home and becoming a step-mom. Again, plenty of upheaval. And I had just begun a new job less than 90 days prior--again, major shifts in my world.

But nothing compared to the call I received the early morning hours of August 30, 1997--the night my mother passed away. She had just been at my wedding those few short hours earlier. The last thing I had said to her was "I'll see you tomorrow, Mom. I love you." We weren't leaving for a honeymoon, since money was tight, so I would have been able to see her. In fact, I did see her, though she didn't see me.

My mom left us with one piece of advice that sets us free--she said "When I'm gone, don't feel obligated to come to my gravesite--I won't be there." So even though it's the anniversary, I feel like it's my choice whether I go to the cemetery, because I honor her memory every day. The things I say are so influenced by who she was that I lose track sometimes of what originates with me and what she instilled. Whenever I see extended family, they comment on just how much I look and sound like her.

So here's to you, Mom: You were the best, and even after 12 years I still miss you every day.