April is often equated with Spring and rain, not gloomy gray days, but happy little showers that bring life and beauty. Everything is colorful and lively. But for me, April is a tough month. As I sit here writing this, I am acutely aware that one week from today marks the 12th anniversary of the passing of my mom. It seems unreal even as I type those words.
Twelve years. I don't need a calendar or reminder app to keep up with that. My mom passed 13 days before my first biological child was born. I spoke with her the night before, and that conversation began exactly like every conversation I had with her began for the previous few months... "Do we have a baby yet?" To say that she was excited is like saying Pompeii was a bit warm in 79 AD. The fact that she never got to see my baby or hold her is one I will never get over.
In 20 days, my oldest girl will turn 12, and I can barely believe it. She never got to meet the woman who raised my sister and me by herself. She never got to be loved on by her "Gram". She never got to be spoiled rotten in a way that is the birthright of every grandchild, at least not by my mom. And my mom never even knew that, against all odds, I married the mother, the woman I have loved for twenty years, now. And we had another daughter just three years after she passed, one named in her honor.
April is also the month of the birth of another family member, my oldest female cousin on my father's side. Laurel was exactly eleven months younger than I. We were close and always super simpatico, more than any of my other cousins on that side, more than any other relative on that side, more than any other person I can think of, really. Her birthday was yesterday (14th), and it was a hard day for me. The thing is, she lived in another state, and we rarely saw each other, rarely even talked much, but it was always easy and comfortable when we did, as if no time had passed. She has been gone almost two years now. It's weird how much you can miss someone, even if you didn't get to see them or talk that often.
As I get closer to my own birthday, 29 days away, I can't help but reflect on how many people are missing from my life, many my age or younger.
It's strange. When I was a teenager and even into my young adulthood, I never thought that I would live to be this old. I thought people who were the age I am were ancient and ready for pasture, and I knew that I had been ridden hard and put up wet more often than many. Now, I wonder, how did it happen? When? A few years ago, I was a stupid kid with no real direction. Now, I am a not-so-much-wiser senior with prescriptions for things that are high instead of drugs meant to get you that way. And who the hell thought it would be OK to let me be responsible (me) for a little human, much less two?
It all makes me appreciate my mom so much more. I wish I could talk to her, to tell her what a remarkable job she did and how I had no idea how difficult it was, and how very sorry I am for SO MUCH.
Michelangelo is quoted as saying at eighty-something years old, "ancora imparo" — still I am learning. I feel like I am, as well, but I feel like there is so much more, and I don't know which is worse, the fact that I don't think I have enough time to learn all I would like, or, as I am fond of saying quite often, "Live and learn. Die and forget it all."
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