Today marks one year since my mom passed away. I miss her terribly.
Despite the stress and struggles her last years demanded of me. Despite the suffering she endured, strong as she was. Despite the time that has passed.
I still miss her.
It’s not the same grief I carry after the death of my husband.
It’s not as – bad.
It’s not as heavy, all-consuming, life-threatening, frightening.
It’s somehow lighter, even though I knew her much longer than I did him.
It’s somehow easier, because she was older, had lived a good, long life.
And because I had time to say everything I wanted to say. To ask the questions. To record the answers. To get the pictures. To hug the hugs. To say goodbye. And thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you. You were the best mom.
And of course, I knew to do and say and appreciate all of these things, because they were gifts I didn’t get with my husband.
The gift of time.
The gift of his voice, recorded a thousand times because some day I would give anything to hear his laugh one more time.
The gifts of knowing, understanding, and conclusion.
All of these gifts I was denied with him.
As I began to realize that my mom was slowing down, that her life was coming to an end, that we were running out of time, I made sure I squoze everything I could out of our relationship.
A hard lesson to learn and accept, I am unbelievably grateful for the wisdom it lent me.
Because it means I can now miss my mom without regrets, without guilt, without what if’s.
I can just miss her because she was amazing and I love her.
And yet today, I am buried in a grief that feels so much heavier than it should. I feel weakened and beaten far more than losing my mom should account for.
And I realize as I force myself to feel these feelings, that, it’s not just Mom I’m grieving today.
Once again, I am smothered by the grief of losing him.
When grief lands on top of grief. When something happens to remind us how shitty it really is, all over again.
We have to make the time, again, to feel the feelings, to wallow in the despair, to go to that dark place and push through the thick, suffocating burden of having loved someone so fully that losing them means losing a piece of our own souls.
I have a few things I have to finish up this morning. Life goes on. But when I get home, I will be locking myself behind a closed door, pulling out the memory bin, opening the wounds, and dumping in the salt. I will cry until I can’t cry anymore. I will feel all of the love I have for both my mom and my husband. And I will get through today so that tomorrow doesn’t hurt quite so much.
Grief isn’t something that heals or goes away over time.
It becomes a part of us. It’s who we are as living, connected human beings. It flavours our souls. It’s the price we pay for privilege of loving someone with our whole hearts.
Dragonfly You 
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