All the Things I Want to Tell You

I had a dream last night, where we were talking on the phone. I told you, "Remember Grandma's chair? You know, Grandma Bean's old chair, that you loved so much. Well, I have it now. I had it re-upholstered, in grey. I had Uncle Matt's stool done to match, and the wood of both stained to match each other. They look beautiful. You'd love it."

And then I woke up and remembered that I can not tell you about the chair, or the stool. I can't text you pictures of the new outfit I bought (and you wouldn't believe the price on sale!). I can't tell you how my day was at work, or show you pictures from my trip to Vienna. I can't talk to you, or hear your voice, or see your responses to me on Facebook, complete with emojis.

And damn, Mom. I miss you so much.

I promise I don't dwell on my sadness (too much). I promise I'm living my life and being the woman you were so proud of. But I can't help it Mom, I think about you all the time and I just hate that I can't have what we had for all those years. That closeness, that bond. I talk to you--all the time--but it's not the same.

I want your gardening advice, and the hearts-and-smilies reactions you put on my Facebook posts. I want to hear your voice outside of my head and I want to hug you. Yesterday marked the tenth month I've had to live without you, and I promise, I'm mostly okay.

But I'm never going to stop missing you.

The chair looks great. I bought a pretty fleece blanket and decorative pillow with colorful birds on them. The colors liven up the grey upholstery, and give it some "pop." The cat pillow you gave me--the one you thought looks like Millie--is on the stool.

You'd approve.

I wish I could show you.