05

Five years ago today, I watched my mom be carried out of the house by the EMS team. I had already heard her say “I love you,” for the last time. I had already held her hand for the last time. I had seen her for the last time. By the time we got to the hospital, she was gone and the spirit that animated her body had already left.

I still have voicemails from her, so I can still hear her voice. I have notes and letters from her, so I can still remember how she talked and what she said to cheer me up when I needed it. I still have some of her clothes, so I can wear them and feel like I have a part of her. I have some of her jewelry, so I can still hear how they clinked together whenever she moved. I can listen to Amy Grant and Carole King and remember her singing along. I have videos of her, so I can remember how she moved. I have recordings of her singing when she was my age, so I can remember her voice.

What I don’t have is her, and even as I add up those parts, nothing could equal the whole. When people find out that my mom is dead, they often ask if we were close. The truth is, we were just beginning to be friends as well as mother and daughter. We had a pretty good relationship overall, but as I become further removed from May 7th, 2014, it becomes harder to accept that we’ll never be friends. We’ll never get to have a weekend away, a bottle of wine between us as we laugh, ask each other questions, as I learn from her wisdom. We won’t watch Gilmore Girls together ever again. We won’t drink coffee in the morning in our pj’s. We won’t go on walks with the dog. We won’t watch my kids grow up. My kids won’t know her.

This day is confusing. I have hope that I’ll see her again but all of the days between now and then are a shade darker than they should be. Nothing feels as bright as it should. But like I said in my last post about Rachel Held Evans, the only way to move forward when we lose a light so bright is to try to make each of our own shine a little brighter than it always has to make up for the one that’s gone. Maybe the world doesn’t have to be dimmer without the ones we’ve lost. I’ve spent five years trying to figure that out and I still don’t know if it’s true, but part of me really hopes it is.