One Year

A few weeks after Mom died, I found myself reading Us Against You by Fredrick Backman. If you haven't read his works, start with A Man Called Ove and work your way through from there. Mom and I read that one, as well as Britt-Marie Was Here, My Grandmother Told Me to Tell You She's Sorry, and Beartown, which Us Against You is a sequel to.

Backman is wonderful. Of course, I'm reading his works translated into English, but there is still so much charm and wittiness in his writing. It reads quickly, and there are moments of humor followed by moments that tear your heart open. Beartown and Us Against You are a bit less quirky and humor-filled than his other works, but still very, very readable and easy to get lost in.

But I digress. The point of this post is that Mom never got to read Us Against You. I mentioned having ordered a copy to her before she died, thinking she would eventually have her turn to read it--when she was feeling better. But she didn't feel better. And so it goes.

So I found myself reading it, a few weeks after, and one evening, I read the passage pictured below and it took my breath away.

It was like Backman had preemptively read my mind and written that line just for me.

What wouldn't I give for one more year? I miss my mom so terribly sometimes, and three months out, it still feels unreal that she's gone. How in the world is she gone?

She loved Fall, and I always have, too. I miss idly discussing how glad we are to see cooler temps and turning leaves.

One more year with her is what I got, from diagnosis/surgery to her death. And yet still, I wanted more. Another year. Another. I'm still reeling that I didn't get that. When I read this, it was like a gut-punch. What would a daughter give to have one more year with her mom?

"You're a tough little broad," she told me, two days before she died. Her way of reminding me that I could survive losing her. But I'd still give anything for one more year.