It’s been two years since my mom “fixed” the arrangement of dirty tableware in my dishwasher. Two years since she calculated how much money I could save if my husband stopped buying sodas at the gas station. Two years since she perched beside me on a bench cheering for whichever kid was running for his life with the football, regardless of whether the particular kid was on our team or not.
Two years since I heard her laugh.
Or heard her sing.
Or her voice on the telephone.
Or her playful arguments with Younger over which one of them actually loved me the most.
I miss her.
In the last two years, Elder turned sixteen and obtained his driver’s license, Younger became a teenager and earned a seat in the middle school’s jazz band, and I started and finished graduate school. All accomplishments I never had the chance to share with her.
I miss her.
Grief recovery isn’t an event. It’s a process. A cycle, in which the emotions return to batter and bruise the mourner until the pain eases from a sharp thrust to a dull ache.
There’s no over it.
There’s simply through it.
Maybe this year I won’t unconsciously wait for her phone call on my birthday.
But I still think of her every time I load my dishwasher.
And I miss her.