Well, today is your birthday. I think I am more sad on this day than any other day. The anniversary of your death isn't hard, it brings back some great memories. But today, today proves to me that you will no longer celebrate the year ahead. You won't be here to open gifts, to eat cake and ice cream, or to watch your grandchildren play. You won't be here to hand out pencils at Halloween, or to start playing Christmas music far too early. You won't be here when I have questions about how to cook a turkey for Thanksgiving. You won't be here for a lot of questions I'll have.
I miss you.
I've had some realizations over the last little while, though. It's like when I see a picture of you, you look different than I remember. It's almost like the feelings and memories I have of you have transformed your appearance into something different. I mean, I still see you and know it's you, but the feelings aren't as apparent in a photo as they are in my being. I hope this doesn't mean I'm forgetting you. I'm pretty sure I'm not, since every day I think about you, or talk about you, or hear the kids talking about you. You're still a huge part of my life. But now it's just the memories of you, the stories you've told us, and the good times we shared.
I miss you.
I know birthdays aren't a huge deal, but when you're not around to share them with us, it makes them a big deal. I wish I had had you for one more birthday. One more conference turkey. One more Christmas. Even one more day. But I know it was your time. I know the lessons we learned that summer are profound and endless. I know it was part of the plan. But I sure could have used one more hug. One more night of sitting on the edge of your bed talking. One more Sunday evening outside in the shade of the willow tree, talking and laughing.
Happy Birthday, mom.
I miss you.
