Another Birthday Without You, Mom

Today would have been my mom’s 69th birthday. This is the third birthday without her. Somehow, two years after losing her, I still find myself mentally collecting things to tell her.

I hate that we cannot have any more birthdays together. Yours. Mine. And that you’ll forever be 66. There are times when I try to tell myself that you lived a long life, but then I think about how short 66 years really is. You deserved so much more time.

I wish we could have a beautiful day together to celebrate you, but I’ll still think of you today and celebrate the day you were born.

Mom, I can imagine we’d be together as a family celebrating you today. Whether it was at The Winery, where we threw your 60th surprise party, or just at home with Dad grilling and the kiddos looking forward to a cake you made because, of course, you would know they’d want dessert.

I’d probably be helping Dad figure out some sort of gift for you and talking with Jacqueline about what to get someone who never really needed much. Just like me, I think quality time was one of your love languages.

More than anything, I think I’d just want the time with you. Time to sit around and talk, and to tell you all the little things I’ve been saving up in my head. Or I wish I could go back in time and play board games or card games with you again.

Since my last letter, there hasn’t been too much to catch you up on since your death anniversary is so close to your birthday.

Penny did get into Oreos while I was gone for a few hours, so she is back to being on crate restrictions. I also got her a new collar and harness from Target. They’re leopard print, which you know is right up my alley. I wish I could send you a photo of her in her new getup. You’d probably tell me I didn’t need it, but that it was cute.

I had to cut back some of my flowers, but after a recent storm, they are thriving. Penny did wake me up during the thunderstorm, which she usually doesn’t do.

I’d show you what I got your oldest granddaughter for her fifth birthday, and tell you that she wanted a Penny stuffed animal just like her little sister’s. Hers needed a rainbow collar, though, to match her rainbow birthday party theme.

Snapping my gum again got me thinking about you, too. There have also been times when sharing pieces of my own grief in sessions has felt helpful, and I find myself talking about how much I still miss you. The analogies about grief being like a bookcase or glitter have become some of my favorites to share because they feel so relatable.

I think that’s the hardest part sometimes. I can still tell you things in my head, but I don’t get to hear what you would say back. I can imagine your reactions, your opinions, or the questions you’d ask, but I still wish I could actually hear them.

So today, I’ll celebrate you in the ways I can. I’ll think about the birthdays we did get to have together, the games we played, the time spent sitting around talking, and all the ordinary moments I didn’t know I would miss this much.