Today is a strange day. It's been ten years today since my mother died. I suppose I expected that the day would lose it's power some after ten years. It has not. The first year, I was too numb to feel anything - just wanted somebody to hold me, make me feel like I was alive. The second year, my first year away from what was left of 'home', I was alone and miserable and locked in my dorm room until friends decided that it was time for me not to be alone. That was good. The third year, my first year with Rob, I was not alone at all - but still miserable. The fourth year I don't remember much about, it was a day spent huddled in my bed watching sappy movies. The fifth year, my son was not yet a month old. It struck hard then - she was gone, it had been five whole years and she was missing everything - her daughter's marriage, her first grandchild - everything. The years after that are a blur. My son never let me get too low, always there with a ready smile and a book for me to read. Now, he is five, hitting that stage where he is too big to be held, especially by mama. And again, I keep seeing how much she is missing. It's worse now because I feel like I'm forgetting her. I've never let the scab heal because if it scarred over, I might forget. I don't ever want to forget. She was my only friend for so long, my only support. I didn't learn to stand until she was gone. We held each other up and then, suddenly, I was a chair with only two legs.
~S