And just like you, I enjoy writing. Tonight I sat down and began to write all the ways I miss you, but there are far too many places and memories. I tried to make it a poem but you were the poet, not me. I tried to make it a song but I just remembered the way you awoke from your life support and asked for music. We had wonderful moments. We had challenging moments. But there are no moments that can ever replace the time I had with you. There are no memories sweeter than the ones we shared. No poem or song or even this, whatever it is; journal entry - can portray how deeply I miss you. You are in Ashley, Dianna, Aunt Mary and Aunt Becky and, hopefully, me.
When you passed, you wanted to be cremated. I told your best friend and your sisters that I believed we should spread you in the ocean; you loved the ocean. Now, as the weekend to spread your ashes at the coast approaches, I can’t bear to part with you. I have hidden your urn because it’s painful to see but I can’t seem to come to terms with parting with you either. And I know it’s not really you. I know you’re with Jesus and you’re healed and in heaven and it’s just the remnants of what you’ve left behind, but it’s you. And I thought your favorite armoire or the fireplace you adored or your teddy bears and pictures would be enough to hold onto. But without you here – without being able to touch you, hug you or snuggle with you on your giant recliner like I came home to do the very same day I moved out of your house for the first time – what’s left of you is all I have. And I can’t part with it; at least not all of it. A good friend suggested a compromise that I think will work nicely. I’ll get to keep part of you near me and you’ll get to rest at the ocean. You really loved the ocean.
And I really loved you. Love you, present tense. I will always remember you in the most wonderful ways; as will everyone who ever knew you. Love you always, Mom.
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