I still miss her.
Mom.
This July will be 3 years.
She would not want this, she’d chide me, give me sh*t and push me to “get on with it, for Heavens sake.”
She’d even snort once or twice.
She in her cat-eye glasses and pedal pushers.
She.
All 100 lbs of her.
I miss her.
I long for our conversations.
I suppose I always will.
The depth. The breadth. The range.
The absurd, the large, the small, the swing of it all.
I see her face in little old ladies faces at the grocery story, except they don’t carry a red purse or possess the spunk she did.
You know what I miss most? Our friendship.
How lucky was I?
I know I should just “deal” and be grateful, and I am.
But her name was Gay, and she epitomized the word fierce.
Mom on Buck, an Emjayandthem (C) photo
And I miss her.
“The worst type of crying wasn’t the kind everyone could see–the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.”
― Pushing the Limits
Who are you missing tonight?
