Dear Mom,

We lost you three years ago, today. It’s an anniversary I recognize, but don’t celebrate.

When you took your last breath, I lost a few of mine. You hadn’t been feeling well. I knew that day was coming. Sometimes I prayed for it. For your release. Your relief. And sometimes I didn’t want it to come at all.

I still cry sometimes. The same way I did for several years after Dad died. Gosh, we’d been close for so long. Sometimes I think of calling you, even if it’s just for a split second. Then I remember you’re gone. And I just talk to you, out loud, as if you’re right there with me. In the car. On my walk. Or at work. I imagine you can hear me and I pray that you have a great view of us, as our lives continue to unfold.

You’d be so proud of your grandkids, and your two great granddaughters. Sweetie pies!

Here in Alabama, it’s been hotter than ever. I know you liked the heat, but even this would have been a bit much. “Feels like” temps well over 100 degrees this month.

Serina started college this fall. She’s at the University of Virginia’s College at Wise. Six hours away! She’s playing volleyball, which you know she loves! She’s studying English like her mom and Tante Heidi. Her first game is Thursday. We can’t wait! She lives with the three other freshmen on the volleyball team. She loves them. So far their best buddies are three big, burley football players. She tells me the school part is going well, too. It’s kind of nice not being able to monitor her grades online. I know I was overprotective during high school. (Sound familiar :)?)

Sophia is doing great, too. She’s been working with Ms. Stephanie across the street on her ACT. This kid puts so much pressure on herself. Not sure where her study habits came from, but certainly not from her dad, sister, or me. She wants to be a nurse, like her Mormor. So far we’ve toured the University of Tennessee and the University of Alabama at Huntsville. We’ll also look at the University of Alabama in Birmingham and maybe the University of North Alabama. Sophia is still playing piano and singing in choir. You would love listening to both.

Speaking of which, you would have enjoyed the concerts the sisters gave us all summer. Both girls singing, with Sophia playing piano and Serina on her guitar. David would get frustrated with the “noise.” I thought those moments were the best ever. They feel like forever ago, although it hasn’t even been a month.

The dogs are sweet. When you came back to the house, in hospice care, Allie would jump on your bed. I was worried she’d hurt you, but you didn’t mind. Both Allie and Harvey stayed near you when you were here. They loved you, too. You were as much their family as we are.

And the cats. Well, Fat Cat is still soft and silky. Frizzell is gone (sad times) and now we’ve got Midnight. He had been displaced and the kids begged us to let them bring him home. You would have wondered what on earth we were thinking! We had no idea how old he was. Poor guy has a huge overbite, missing top teeth, bad breath, and the most ridiculous surplus of eye boogers. (The vet gave us eyedrops; they’ve helped some.) Strange thing, though, Midnight is the sweetest, most affectionate cat we’ve ever had. So he’s part of the family now, too. Eye boogers and all.

As you always knew: Time doesn’t stand still. So much has happened since you passed away. But I can easily go back in time, in my mind, at least. To my childhood when you and I would walk around Nokomis, no matter the weather. When you’d take Heidi and me to Southdale on Saturdays. When all of us would go to Mindekirken for the 11am Church services. When Dad would grill ribs, and the five of us would eat in the living room watching All in the Family, The Jeffersons, and The Carol Burnett Show. When you’d come up to St. Ben’s for lunch, just because. When you came to visit us in Huntsville and we took a million pictures at the Space & Rocket Center.

Then I am back in our home on August 28, 2020. Deep in that moment when you left us, and the world lost your very special glimmer.

I cried and cried and cried.

Mom, I don’t know what you can hear or see. If anything. But for now, I’m choosing to believe that you can hear me when I talk to you. That you can see our family as our seasons of life change. Heidi and Larry’s families, too.

And that you can sense the thoughts, feelings, and love that I might pour into a blog.

Believing that you can see and hear me, or read my blog, makes me feel better. It gives me comfort. Makes me smile. Because even if you’re gone, I feel as though we are still communicating. I just can’t always catch your end of the exchange.

Love,
Your youngest daughter