Mom's Birthday

She would have been 73 years old today. She was always scared of turning 72 because that's when her mother first got sick. I guess she knew somehow.

With my sister's illness and this damn pandemic, I am filled with a lot of emotions these days - mostly rage and deep, heart-breaking sadness. I honestly don't think I've ever experienced this kind of grief. It's the first time I've lost someone in my inner circle. My grandparents all passed, and I held sadness in my heart for them, but this is different.

I've been doing all of the self care things, including reading this wonderful book Wintering by Katherine May (and recommending it to everybody I talk to), but what has helped me the most is surrounding myself with her objets d'arte.

Each piece has a specific memory of either when she purchased it, where it sat in her house, the joy it brought her, the deal she got when she purchased it (most likely on a New Year's Day sale at Dillard's or Marshall Field's). Or even the memory of the two of us creating a mosaic lamp out of decorative pearls, shards of pottery, probably a bit of bickering but also a lot of love.

As I hold each of these pieces in my hand, I feel her with me. Strangely enough, some of the pieces even smell like her - she always smelled so good, with the softest skin I've ever touched.

My home office is now starting to fill up with pieces of her, a soft pink light glows and comforts me, and even though I'm sad, I know I can find solace amongst the art.

Happy Birthday, Mama.