Another birthday of hers has come and gone. On Thursday, Oct. 25, she should’ve turned 54.
Not very old.
My mom was 52 when she passed away. That means she was 26 at her mid-life. She was 26 when she had me. And I was just shy of 26 when she died. Sometimes I wonder if I should believe these numbers mean anything. Mostly I just hope and pray they don’t.
I’m still sometimes overwhelmed by the emptiness I feel without her. It hits without warning. I was kind of prepared for it Thursday though. Which was good, since it hit twice before 8:00 a.m.
I try to be as happy as possible. I try to think thoughts like, “I was lucky to have her for nearly 26 years.” But it’s not always possible, and sometimes I sway more towards, “We got screwed out of a lot of good years.”
After putting in my 8 hours at the office, I headed over to St. Joseph’s Cemetery, just up the street from our house. It was a gorgeous day, and I was able to sit at her grave in the Holy Family Garden for about 30 minutes before I remembered that a woman was attacked in a condo fairly close to the cemetery a few months ago and I became increasingly paranoid sitting in a big empty space alone. Ah, sad and paranoid – a winning combination.
I brought over some pink carnations, which were her favorite flower. I could tell my dad had already visited because of the crazy daisies in the vase. I also brought a small pumpkin at TJ’s suggestion. Because why not?
Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.