There was a time in my life when “A year and a day” meant something completely different. It meant commitment to a role, to honoring duties, it meant loyalty to a cause for the duration of a reign.
Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Mom passing away. I had the day off work and slept in a bit, then snuggled kitties, before setting out on my planned adventure. It had been years since I had been up to Rocky Mountain National Park, but I knew that’s where I wanted to go. On the drive, I listened to the playlist we made of some of her favorite songs and sang (and cried) my little heart out. My meandering journey up to RMNP was peaceful, and I set out to take some pika pictures. I was successful, which is amazing! I also got a couple of beautiful shots of Sprague Lake before heading home. I stopped on the way for a solo lunch, Mexican food of course, with a relleno for Mom.
I then joined Scotty and Corrine for Happy Hour at their house, where we were joined by Kat and Bee. We talked about music, they recapped UMS and Blucifer’s First Rodeo, and it was a generally good time. As night fell and the rain subsided, we lit the fire, poured some wine and waited for the full moon to rise.
All in all, yesterday was a good day.
Today, today has been hard. Something about realizing it’s been “a year and a day,” and I was volun-told into this role. After a year and a day, I still don’t know what the official duties are or how to complete them. Loyal to her and her memory, without a doubt, but how to hold it all, I’m not sure.
I don’t know…
How to talk about her without crying, most of the time.
How to celebrate things she’ll never get to see.
How to carry so much sadness and still show up for life.
How to move forward when part of me is still in the past.
How to answer when someone asks me if I’m okay, like really okay.
How to live without needing her.
How to feel joy without guilt.
How to explain that some days, breathing feels like work.
How to share my grief with people who have never felt it.
How to handle the quiet at night when I miss her the most.
I didn’t realize how much I called her, mostly for nonsensical things. Did she see this? Did she know that? Can she believe? Or sharing moments with her, like the kids having their impromptu sing-a-longs to Quinn’s playlist titled “White Girl Bangers.” Or to tell her about the horrible date I went on, or the guy I’m crushing on.
I’ve missed the opportunities to call her during a storm, just to hear her say with a smile in her voice “You little shit, get off this damn phone!” There were calls seeking parenting advice or getting her reassurance, that I’ll never get again.
There is this quiet war just beneath the surface, that’s almost imperceptible unless you know where to look. It’s in the space that lands between who you were before they passed, and who you became after. It’s the ugly crying at Hayden Park, the stifled sobs and long stares to stop the tears. It’s snapping at people who don’t deserve it, and going back to apologize later, and eventually just keeping distance for the sake of ease. Healing isn’t beautiful, it’s ugly, chaotic and painfully honest.
But it’s also beautiful, touching, and so worth it. It’s finding a strength you didn’t know you had, it’s not taking a single moment for granted. It’s discovering that little spark within you, that you can fan into a flame. It’s the people who are willing to step in, when others have stepped away.
It’s knowing that she wouldn’t want us to be sad or to miss her. She’d want us to look for her in the sunsets, the chipmunks, the cute puppies, the butterflies and the Mile High Magic. She’d want us to talk about her, to share stories and laugh. She’d want me to shake my head when Coach Bednar lets his hair get to “sheep dog” length, and she’d want me to smile when I hear her laugh in Elsie and see her competitive spirit in Quinn. She’d want me to keep working on my relationship with Travis, knowing how much it meant to her and I to come back together.
Knowing that another year and a day is upon me, here are the duties I am going to honor:
- I will remind myself on the hard days that I wouldn’t trade my love for you to escape the grief; I wouldn’t erase the happiness to avoid the pain.
- I will find my joy and give it away.
- I will tell people what they mean to me as often and as much as I can, to leave no room for doubt.
- I will put pen to paper again, in a hopefully meaningful way.
- I will pour myself into new experiences that find me.
I love you, Mom, and I am so grateful to be your daughter.
S
Thoughts of Sam 