It has been almost four years since you left me and I still find myself picking up the phone to call you.
I want to tell you about the funny things my kids have said or done.
I want to show you the story Noah wrote about you in first grade that still hangs on my refrigerator.
I want to tell you about the beautiful, complicated, incredible woman Kayla is becoming.
I want to talk to you about report cards, field trips, and boyfriends.
I want to brag to you about hockey games and volleyball tournaments.
I want to cry to you during the times that I can no longer bear to be their mother.
I want to tell you that Sara is my best friend.
I want to tell you that we still go to Hinckley every July to celebrate your birthday.
I want you to know that everyone still talks about you.
I want you to understand how much you were loved by your husband, your ex-husband, your children, your grandchildren, your siblings, your nieces & nephews, your friends, your neighbors….
I want you to know that you left a mark on this world.
I want to hold you in my arms one last time and tell you how sorry I am for all I put you through.
I want to know that you forgave me.
I want to tell you how much I learned from you.
I want to sit with you in the livingroom with nothing to say and listen to you breathe, thinking that you will be with me forever.
And there are the things that I wish I didn’t have to do but would not have given up for the world:
Decorating your bedroom.
Sitting with you on the couch going over the the list of people to call when you died.
Discussing your pallbearers.
Shopping for the outfit you would wear.
Explaining what was happening to you for the hundredth time.
Getting the Mickey Mouse wine glass for your water.
Calling your family when you said it was time.
Reassuring you that we had pickles and turkey for Thanksgiving.
Explaining to you that we were not going anywhere even though you knew that you were going somewhere soon.
Trying my best to comfort you in those final minutes when you were hot, scared, and breathless.
Writing your eulogy.
I think my biggest regret in those final months is that I let someone else read my thoughts on your life at the funeral. I hate that I allowed a stranger speak those words because he did not give them the emotion they deserved. I like to think, however, that you heard it all and knew that it came from my heart.
You were always my true north, even when I didn’t know it. You were my soft place to land and my hard dose of reality. You were the one on whom I depended and the one who knew when to allow me to fail. You were my anchor and my life vest. You were my everything.
Mom, you were not perfect but you were still amazing.
I love you and miss you.