Five

Mom,

Five years ago today, I held you in my arms as you flew free of the body that had betrayed you. I thanked you for being my mom and promised that I would take care of Popie and he’d take care of me. That we would be ok without you and not to worry about us. It was, at once, the hardest moment of my life and the best. I felt such a feeling of peace and love as you took your final breaths. I just KNEW that you were going to a better place and that you were being greeted with love when you arrived. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. I was so glad that you were finally escaping the pain and weakness that cancer surrounded you with and I was so devastated that you were leaving me way before you were supposed to.

The weeks following your death tried me in ways I hope to never experience again. Five years later, I can remember the feelings emptiness and loss that threatened to swallow me whole, but they’re vague recollections. The pain isn’t raw anymore, but it’s not gone. There’s still an empty place inside me where you used to be.

I’ve made good on my promises. I’ve taken care of Popie and we’re both ok. He’s happy and I know that’s what you wanted for him. I’m happy, too, but I regret that your beautiful granddaughter will never get to know you. I regret that you won’t be standing at my side when I give birth to your grandson. I regret so many things, really. Sometimes I feel so screwed by the universe. How in the hell am I supposed to be a good mom without you? Who am I supposed to call when I need advice, or sympathy or a  swift kick in the ass to straighten me out? But these moments are getting less and less frequent. I’ve learned to adjust to life without you.

I hope you’d be proud of the woman I’ve become. The wife and mother that I strive to be. I know you’d be pleased that Gerald and I have been married for almost six years now and are very, very happy together. I know you’d adore your grandchildren and spoil them rotten if for no other reason than payback for my teen years.

I miss you, mom. And I love you as big as the sky the last number of times.

Erica

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