It is the time of year when a little voice inside my head reminds me that this is the time of year that my mom passed away and I count back...one, two, and now three years ago.  You think of the time in the hospital, you think of the moment she was first gone from you, you think of the days leading up to the funeral and then the days when you realize all the things that left your life with her. 

 

I wrote this poem last year and pulled it back out this year.  It still applies:

 

Two Years Today

I could not call you
when the cat ran away
and I needed to hear you say
"Don't worry, she'll come home."

I could not call you
over the busy holidays
so I could hear you tell me
... "Don't worry, you'll be ready."

I could not call you
when life got a little rough
and I needed to be told
"Don't worry, it will get better."

I could not call you
any of the hundreds of times that I wanted to
Just to let you know-
it was a good day
the vet appointment went well
we are home from our trip
the snow is finally here.

I could not call you
but don't worry Mom,
I tell you all these things anyway
and I know that you hear me.

 

Because my mom died closely to my birthday I tend to link it together.  The first birthday card from my dad without "Mom" on it.  The trip my husband and I were taking that I knew I had to go on but had to struggle to enjoy.  And this year, on the verge of turning 50, I want to ask my mom how she herself felt turning 50.  But I can't ask her of course.  And I am dealing with that.