Two Years Today

It’s been two years.

Two years since I lost you; heard your voice; called you on the phone.

Two years since we laughed together; panned a Disney trip; went out to lunch.

I’ve been through all of the stages of grief. What I’m feeling today is not that. Today is more of a smiling-through-the-tears day. Remembering all of the good times and being sad, but it’s not the bone-and-soul-crushing sadness I had at the beginning. It’s muted. More of a twinge than a pain.

I know it was for the best. I know you were tired of the treatments, doctor appointments, and the fight. I know you were in pain.

I am very, very happy and thankful that you were not here to experience the pandemic. I am sure I would have lost you to the virus, and that would have made your death even more devastating — if you had to die alone.

I miss you.

There are moments when I still pick up the phone to call you to tell you something funny. Moments when I think, “I have to remember to tell Mom that.” And then it hits me that I can’t.

The good news is that now, instead of crying, I smile. I remember your silliness. Your caring, giving heart. Your adventurous spirit. And I’m so, so thankful that I have those memories.

I hope that you are at peace.

I love you, Mama.