Has it really been a year? It doesn’t seem possible that time has kept moving all along. But somehow, the sun has come up every day since you’ve been gone and 365 days have gone by.
The day you died, Aunt Alisa called me early in the morning to tell me to hurry and come to the hospice center where you were. I don’t remember getting dressed, I don’t remember getting ready at all. But somehow I did and I got into the car – your car – and I called Jeanette and asked her to go over to the house so that Jeff would have help when the girls woke up. It was raining and I remember thinking that was appropriate.
There were a lot of people that came, but I’m not sure I could name everyone. At one point, I had to take off your wedding ring because your fingers were swollen.
And then you were gone.
It felt like life couldn’t move forward. But somehow, without my approval, it did.
We sold the dining room table. At first, I wanted to keep the house exactly the way it was when you were here, but then I realized that you didn’t keep the house the way it was. Furniture changed, bathrooms were remodeled. You liked taking on new projects, so I figured you’d be happy with us making the dining room into a play room. It looks great, too. We bought some storage from Ikea and the girls got a little kitchen for Christmas and it looks like one giant pink room. It’s nice for them to have their own little space.
Macy still asks about you. It breaks my heart to explain to her, over and over again, that no, you aren’t coming back. That yes, you will be in heaven forever. To her, it doesn’t seem fair that one day you were here and now you are not. I can’t say that I blame her.
Selah looks less like a baby and more like a big girl. She likes to do whatever Macy is doing. She still sleeps with that blanket that Mamma made – the one you found right after we came back to Houston. And she loves dad. I wish you could see her face when he comes in from work. They sit up in his chair and read book after book. She’s a spoiled little girl.
And I’m pregnant. I know, I know – you told me not to have any more kids because you couldn’t find any more matching Christmas stockings, but I google’d the stockings and found one that is very, very close. And I took a trip to Hobby Lobby to find one of those matching stocking holders too. It’s also not quite perfect, but close enough. I had flashbacks of last year when we stood in the Christmas aisle trying to find a stocking holder for Selah’s stocking. It’s like that for me a lot. Remembering you in different places, imagining what you would think of something. Asking you questions in my head.
So, the baby. It’s a girl. I know you’d be thrilled. More pink, more dresses. I always thought it was so special the way you had two sisters and now my girls will too. I know there will be drama. And more drama. But I hope they will be best friends. And take care of each other. And stay with other in the hospital when they are sick, like you and your sisters did for each other.
And then, there are some things that haven’t changed. I still buy the same brand of paper towels that you did and the same kind of hand soap. I cook some of the same meals that you did, but I don’t think they taste quite as good. But the girls like them – especially the roast and chicken spaghetti.
I miss asking you questions. I’ve come up with a thousand that I’m not sure I’ll ever get the answer to. Where is your sewing stuff? What month did you and dad get engaged? If I forgot to lay the steaks out this morning, do you think they’ll still thaw by dinner? Where did we store Selah’s baby clothes? I know that none of these are very important, but I miss asking them anyway.
It’s hard to believe its been a year. But it reminds me to be thankful for the other 28 that I did have with you.
I love you, Mom.