It’s my mom’s birthday. She would be seventy-three years old today had she not died at sixty-five.
My mom’s birthday is a super hard day because it highlights what should be in stark contrast to what actually is.
My mom should be celebrating turning seventy-three.
My mom is dead.
I tried to avoid having feelings today by taking the necessary precautions. But the pizza and vanilla mini Oreos I inhaled last night didn’t seem to do the trick.
Some feelings are just too big to eat.
My mom would be seventy-three today which means I’ll be forty-six in ten days. She had me at twenty-seven. She left me at sixty-five. I was thirty-eight. She died seven and a half years ago.
This is a whole lotta math that adds up to a whole lotta tears.
In the words of Barry Manilow, “When will this longing end?”
I don’t get to touch my mom, or smell her. And
she had the best smell. It was important to her to always smell good. In fact, my mom told my brother, sister and me to shoot her if she ever got that “old lady scent.”
I do see my mom in my mirror.
And as time goes by, I see her more and more in that mirror. And in pictures.
It’s weird. Certain angles I look just like her, yet when she was here, I didn’t see her in me.
Maybe it’s my age now. Or my size. I was much fatter when my mom was alive. And, well, much younger.
We have identical hands. And expressions.
I’m going to get a manicure and choose a nail polish she would’ve worn (a bordeaux–esque shade).
And for today I’ll see my hands and trick myself into thinking they’re really hers.
Maybe it’s ok that the longing won’t really ever end.
Maybe that’s just how it is when you love someone so much.
I loved my mom so much.