Ramblings from the Gryphon Rose

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

An Empty Birthday Chair, a Cake with no Candles

Today is my mother's birthday.
She would have been sixty-two today.
It's been a little over seven months since she died. I still keep expecting to hear her voice when I call home on Sundays. I keep thinking she'll be waiting when we fly out for Thanksgiving. I still feel like she's nearby.
In a way, I guess she is. But it's not the same.
In the midst of all my moving woes, I find myself thinking that Mom will really like the house, that she'll appreciate the kitchen, that she'll admire the stairway and the woodwork and have all sorts of ideas about the little garden in front and the small yard in back. It hurts that she'll never get to see it, that I won't get to walk her through the house. That she'll never get to come visit and stay in the guest bedroom.
It hurts more that she never got to hear Adara talk, or see her walk, or listen to her laugh. Mom did get to hold her, but only a few times, and not nearly enough.
But I know my mother well enough to know that she'd want me to smile and remember all the good times, rather than dwelling on the pain of her absence. My youngest sister suggested that we all make sure to have some chocolate ice cream—Mom's favorite—today to celebrate her birthday. She'd have loved that. I hope all of you who met her will do the same.
Happy Birthday, Mom. We love you, and we miss you.


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