But when Dad's text came in tonight, telling me that his friend Geri had texted saying she'd pray for us tomorrow, it took me a moment to remember why. My phone jingled just as I was closing the door to the kittens' room after feeding them. Foster kittens are a great distraction.
It was only as I dialed his number to ask him that I remembered what I've been thinking of all week: tomorrow is the second anniversary of losing Mom.
Time flies, doesn't it?
I don't cry as often as I used to, and that's a good thing, because crying over your dead mom only leaves people wondering how to comfort you, and uncomfortably aware that they can't comfort you. But I think of her every day, and sometimes, in the privacy of my home, I still find myself overwhelmed by the loss. The child version of Meg that still resides in there is wholly lost without her mommy.
But Grown-Up Meg carries on. I know she is proud of me, wherever she is. I know she didn't want me to be miserable--and I truly am not miserable. I love my job, I am surrounded by people who love me, and having three tiny foster kittens taking over my home hardly leaves me any time to do anything but laugh. But I miss her constantly. I am always aware of the loss of her.
That Geri remembered the date without any sort of prompting meant something to Dad and I. Mom was special to a lot of people, and we all miss her. I'm not alone in this. Dad and I spent a few minutes just now reminiscing; how lucky we were to have her. She was ours, and we were hers.
Even after two years, that rogue wave can sweep me into the sea. Right now it's tossing me around and in a few minutes, I'll no doubt be thrown back on the shore, a bit bruised and fragile, but still alive.
I will never stop missing her.
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