Yesterday was Dad’s birthday and today, 8 years ago, my mother died in the wee hours of the morning. An insignificant woman to the many, unnoticed by most and taken for granted by a few, slipped quietly away. She waited for her only child to leave her in those early hours before dawn to move on to what she needed to do. Only in death have I come to realize what a true marvel she was, a simple woman with uncomplicated beliefs and a strength of spirt unmatched by any.
She always said she was old when she had me at 42 and only after I had my last child at 42 did I truly appreciate what this miracle meant to her. When I was younger I prayed to be like my father because I thought he was the stronger of the two, only with her passing did I realize how very wrong I had been.
For 60 years, 5 months and 19 days she held our father together and with her passing so passed both of my parents from my life, her family had lost their anchor and we were left embattled in treatorous seas, unmoored and cast adrift by the remaining figure.
We’ve survived mother, it was hell for a few years but we’re still here, ragged for the wear but I think you’d be proud. In honor and in homage of you, Amanda and I once again paid our annual visit to the cemetery to commiserate our grief on this anniversary of your passing. We shared ice cream with you this year, brought Bowie with us to meet you and as per my tradition I once again read “The Little House” by Virginia Lee Burton which I shared with you on the night of your passage home. We love you mom and this year, the first time in 8 years I made it all the through the story without crying.