Dear Mom,
Today is my birthday. I know you know that. You birthed me and all. Forty years ago today at 11:45 P.M., you brought me into this world all by yourself. The doctor had sent you home with the instruction that I was not ready to be delivered yet, but I didn't get that message and decided to make my entrance into life in your bedroom at 123 Campus Heights in Flagstaff, AZ. You made it a habit of telling me that this was your most embarrassing moment. Luckily for me, you had a few more later in your life that topped this incident. You were wheeled out of the NAU family housing apartment with me still attached via umbilical cord, your legs bent up for all to see what lay beneath. Now, after having a child of my own, I understand how you must have felt. More than that, I understand how brave and strong you were that night. Thank you for that.
I didn't get an ecard from you today. I didn't get a text. No Happy Birthday song in your lovely voice. I didn't open the just-right thoughtful gift that you give me every year. You weren't here to celebrate with me by eating dinner and a slice of the annual cheesecake Paul makes for me.
You aren't here for all of that anymore. But you are here with me. I know that. I feel that. I heard you this morning in my mind. Happy Birthday Zanny. I love you. I tried telling myself that it wasn't really you. I was just making it up, but you told me again. And again. I felt you then. My heart felt you.
I miss you, Mom. I miss you so bad that I ache. There is a hole in me that can't be filled. It is the place that you held while you were here.
It has been nearly four months since you passed away, and the realization has just begun to set in. The "Hi hon" when you would see me. The words of encouragement. The emails of love and support. The laughs at Cael's antics. All gone.
How grateful I am for the memories, though. I will keep sending you letters to hold on. To hold on to you. To hold on to the memories. To hold on to the hope that the vacancy in my soul will abate.
I love you.
Your 40-year-old daughter,
Suzanne
