Two Years

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.

Maybe.

But I still think of her every time I load my dishwasher.

And I miss her.

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4 responses to “Two Years

  1. Just today I was thinking how my dad would have enjoyed Jeremiah working his mouth in concentration as he colored. You just never know when those memories will pop up!

  2. “what do you want?” 🙂
    This is how I always answered the phone when she called and she started saying it before I could when you transferred her call to me.

    funny what we remember

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