I thought it would be different.
I didn’t feel you anywhere, or feel like crying. I didn’t feel I should stop to remember or think much about you, and that made me feel strange.
My brother and I talked about our kids, our everyday worries, our plans. I kept wanting to acknowledge the day — we both know what day it is. Along with our sister, we’ve all felt so much leading up to it. But he wasn’t crying, and I didn’t want to make him cry.
I thought that you would be happy hearing us, laughter and brilliant plans to come.
And I know you can see those messages, exchanged between all of your children — memories, accounts of possible apparitions. Moments of sorrow, tears, moments we falter — but those aren’t the most important, I guess.
I went through my day, wondering how I could honor you. I was too lightly dressed to go into the church I passed by and light a candle. I was angry I hadn’t thought of that before I’d left the house.
I didn’t go through photos, I had nothing to write. It’s often that way with me: Words come easily — too easily, even — but when it’s something deep inside my heart, it’s harder.
And then, there I was, lounging on the sofa, watching a romantic comedy that reminded me of “You’ve Got Mail”, a movie I never realized you loved as much as I do, until you mentioned it not long before you passed.
Something happened in the other movie. Here, on my sofa in the real world, I laughed, and it sounded so much like your laugh.
There was the moment.
You were with me, we were laughing together.
The best way to remember you.
I love you, Mom.