It was mothers day yesterday. I texted my mom in the same breath as I texted you, “I’m on my way home, call you when I get there”. But then I realized that you’re not home anymore. You’re not here anymore. At least not in person.
And I miss you.
I miss ten years ago. You came and visited me in London on mothers day with my mom. How I was so young but pretended to be grown. How we bought matching sunglasses, wore leather jackets, and had a beer on a bar we thought looked cool. I miss your straightforwardness. How you always stood firm by your principles. And by that, I never had to doubt you.
I always knew that I was mothered by many, raised by a village of fantastic women. How principles and the strive are what make the ride we call life bearable. And I miss you as part of my team. It’s an empty seat on the ice hockey bleachers, and I’ve raised your shirt high up in the hall. Number 33. But it’s not enough. I miss you more than grand gestures.
I even miss when I was a kid, and you chased me around my grandparent's backyard. (Apparently, throwing rocks at cars is where we draw the line for mischief.) I miss eating salty licorice and watching blurry tv while your ex-husband composed new music on his piano. I miss going to the fun park and riding carousels until we were crossed-eyed.
And I will treasure your memory by buying keychains for the next generation after I’ve been on a long trip. I will ride every carousel and buy the largest cotton candies. I will teach the children about boundaries, creativity, and love for animals. And I will do my best even if I know nothing compares to you.
And one day I will join you, your dog Bono, my grandparents, my ex's mom, and all who mothered me. But until then I will do everything that they’ve done right. And I will continue to miss you a little bit more.
