The horrible months following my mom’s death in 1980 have provided training for this time.

Things I remember from when my mom died:

I remember that after a few weeks, I realized that I had just experienced my first few minutes in an hour where I wasn’t sad, where I wasn’t thinking about how she had just died.  I remember those minutes gradually shifted to hours free from thoughts and sadness and ultimately to days and even months when I didn’t think of her, to a new place where I wasn’t sad.

I remember that the first of everything was so impossibly hard.  The first Thanksgiving, Christmas, her birthday, my birthday, Mothers Day.  Each year they got a tiny bit better.  There were still tough days, like our wedding day.  Marrying Paul without them ever meeting each other.

I’ve had to live with the frustration that I couldn’t adequately describe her to my kids, my friends, to Paul. She will always be just an image in a photo to them.

34 years later, her birthday is still hard.  Mothers day too. But I don’t cry all day in bed.  I might choke up or shed a tear, but mostly I am full of stories of her humor, her wit, her love of animals, her passion, her artistic ability, her beautiful smile, her grace, her classy, sassy personality.  I smile remembering her, grateful for the time we had.  How lucky I was to have her as a mom. How she was my world. Her wisdom remains with me.

I know someday this will be true with John.  I’ve been here before.  My mother taught me.