4 Years

4 years. Wow. It’s been four year.

Somehow this anniversary doesn’t mean as much as it used to. I suppose that is bound to happen with every passing year.

Instead, it’s all the days in between. 

All the days when randomly a song, or a comment, or a picture will provoke a thought.

A thought that leaves me empty. Reminds me that it’s real.

That she’s really gone.

And I am left.

A mother without a mother.

And without a clue as to how to mother.

But then…

That’s not really fair. She didn’t leave me totally helpless and alone.

She taught me. She taught me every day she was here, how to be a mother. Just by being my mother.

But did I pay attention?

Probably not like I should have.

But she also taught my sisters. I still have my sisters.

My blessed sisters who are each amazing mothers.

And suddenly I am one of the luckiest heart-broken girls in the world.

Treasure

We’re living in Mesa. This is home to me, though it still feels like we’re just visiting.

These are my old stomping grounds. My kids are playing in the same parks that I did. I shop at the same stores that my mom did. We are even in the same ward that I was as a child. There are lots of familiar faces. Lots of people I know. And even more that my Mom knew.

She is everywhere here. I see her in the faces of old friends. In the grocery stores she shopped. In the boutiques she frequented. I see her in the restaurants she loved. In the parking lot she taught me drive in. The school ball fields she watched me play in. I see her in the people she admired. The people she loved and respected. The people that loved her.

It’s nice to be around her again.

I miss her.

I miss her hugs.

I miss her notes.

She wrote me notes all the time. Uplifting, positive, encouraging notes.

When she died, I searched and searched for one of these notes.

And cried and cried when I couldn’t find any. She wrote them so often, I must have one day decided to toss them, knowing that I would receive a new one in a short amount of time. Until suddenly, that time did not exist any more. And I ached to see my Mom’s handwriting and read those words meant just for me.

Today I unpacked an old box. One that had never been unpacked in the 5 years that we lived in Utah.

What a beautiful treasure I found. Not one, not two, but multiple letters from my Mom! From when I lived in the dorms at BYU. They are old. They will only get older. But as I read them, I like to think they still apply. Written in her beautiful cursive and signed with a heart. It is like art to look at and poetry to read.

Dear Tasha -

I just want you to know how much I love you. You have given me so much joy all your life. I love how you hug me so much. I love your noisy, smoochy kisses. I love the fact that you can’t help but smile when I’m egging you on. I love your sunny disposition and your tender, tender heart. I really do know that I can trust you, Tash – I would trust you with my life. I’m really looking forward to seeing you with your own children because I know you will be a fantastic mother.

You are a wonderful daughter, Tasha – one of the six best in the world! You would probably be embarrassed if you knew how much I brag about you to others. If it ever seems like I’m being hard on you, it’s only because I know your potential.

To me you have it all, Tasha – beauty, brains, personality, talent, and above all, a sweet spirituality that makes you glow. You have a special ability in writing and I anticipate reading many interesting stories and thoughtful poems as your life expands. You have established some wonderful habits of scripture reading and prayer that I hope you will always continue. These habits will help you to “fill your well” so you will be ready when others come to you for help and encouragement. I know many people will be blessed by their association with you. You make people happy. You make me happy. I am happy when I hear you sing or play the piano. I’m happy when I watch you in sports. But mostly I am happy when I see you put the gospel into action by giving of yourself to others. I dreamt of having seven children, but I never dared dream to have a child as special as you.

Thank you for being so loveable.

d Love, Mom

Thank you Mom. Thank you for building me up when I’ve needed it. I needed it today. I needed you today.

And you were here.

Long and Winding Trip, Part 2

We told the kids they were not allowed to ask, “Are we there yet?” until they could see cacti. So that negated about 7 hours of the drive and left us with only one hour of the incessant questioning. 

Valley of the Sun, Arizona (ie., Mesa/Gilbert)

Highlights:

Chillaxin’ at my sister’s

Dunkin Donuts – sorry Utah, Krispy Kreme just doesn’t do it for me – I even got a free dozen because they didn’t have my favorite kind (Bavarian Cream all the way baby) and I told them I came all the way down from Utah for them. So they saved me a free dozen for the next morning. :) Nice!

Swimming

Nice visit with Great Grandma Palmer

Tennis with my nephew

Gecko Grill – their southwest shrimp burros are a must whenever we come to town)

An afternoon with a dear friend from high school and picking up right where we left off even though it’s been years

Joe’s Bar-b-q – another must for Greg

More swimming

Gusty sand storm that blew in – makes for even more gorgeous sunsets

Bounce U with the kids

Still feeling like its home

Lowlights:

children burning legs on hot carseat buckles

waking up drenched in sweat

getting creamed at tennis and even tumbling to the ground while chasing a perfectly placed lob and getting some awesome battle wounds

----

Of course the place my kids were most anxious to visit was their Grammy’s grave at the Mesa cemetery. Don’t ask me why, but Zion has pretty much been obsessed with Grammy’s death and whenever we pass by a cemetery she asks if that is where Grammy is. I had not been to the Mesa Cemetery since my Mom’s passing and had yet to see her grave as well. So we dropped by for a quick hello on our way back out of town. The sun was shining brightly in the kids’ eyes so the picture is no good. And Taryn thought it was a huge grassy park that she could run around in to her heart’s content. We had to wrestle her away from stomping on the headstone of a grieving family a few yards away from Mom. But it was a nice opportunity to talk to them about the difference between Grammy’s body and her spirit. I don’t know if it was because I was dealing with whiney and escaping kids, or if it was because the difference between body and spirit is so apparent for me, but I felt absolutely no attachment to the place. And really no desire to stay. We were there only a few minutes.

Onward to the Mogollon Rim 

and the most seat-gripping part of our trip

Put in a Pot

I wasn’t even that attached to it. In fact, I probably would have considered selling it at our next yard sale.  But for some reason, when Greg brought the shattered pieces in to show me, I broke down.

It was a simple, blue, ceramic, flower pot. A pot I had hung onto for years and put to different uses. Mostly to store baby diapering products on our changing table shelf. A pot I’ve had since my first baby was born. A pot brought to me in the hospital with beautiful blue flowers. A pot given me by my mother.

My mother.

It’s a stupid little pot.

But suddenly it meant so much more.

And it got me thinking, and depressing, and sulking. What if everything my Mom has ever given me becomes lost or broken? What if, one by one, ever so slowly, every material possession I have from my Mom disappears?

But more than that – what if, just as slowly, but just as suddenly, one by one, every memory, every thought, every impression, every smell, every touch, every embrace, every stroke, every recollection, every story, every feeling I have, or have had about my Mom vanishes? Vanishes!?

It’s happening already. I can feel it happening.

26 years of memories. 26 years of memories are disintegrating. 26 years. Only 26 years. That’s all I have. All I had.

But those possessions? I have possessions. I have items from her. I have items of hers. And with each one of those items, I have a memory. Concrete memories. Memories that are real. Memories that can be felt and seen and touched. Memories that don’t seem so distant. Don’t seem so surreal.

Is it real?

Is this really real?

Is she really gone?

I still can’t grasp that sometimes.

I can’t comprehend it.

I just can’t.

Sometimes.

The De"Saint"ification of the Deceased

3 years today.

And I'm mad at my mom.

I know we usually glorify the deceased, put them high on a pedastool, remember the pretty good times as wonderfully perfect, the awful times as pretty good, and never speak ill of them. But this is my grief, and so I'll do with it what I want. And lately I've been angry. I'm angry that the majority of the memories I have of my Mom are not pleasant. Actually, when I look back on my childhood, I have very few memories of my Mom at all - good or bad. Not because my mind has failed me, but because she did. Simply put - she wasn't around.

And I'm mad that I wasn't important enough to her. That she would rather stay in bed all day than be actively involved in my life, or even her own. That her bed, books, soap operas, talk shows, computer games, chat rooms, even solitaire were more valuable to her than me. Sure, I have lots of fond memories of snuggling under the covers with her in the mornings before school, or knowing she would be awake from insomnia in the middle of the night when I was sick with fever and could curl up on the recliner with her. She was there when I needed her, but what about when I wanted her?

I'm mad that I had to make excuses for her. That when our church block was early in the morning, we were left orphans on the bench with my dad watching us from the stand. That if people asked where my mom was, we were instructed to tell them that she wasn't feeling well. Is that really what it was? Or was she simply too lazy? Too lazy to just get up? To just be present? That's what it felt like. What it feels like. Was there really a legitemate, underlying excuse? I hope there was. I hope there was a darn good reason. But I am the baby. And baby's aren't told much of adult problems. As it should be I suppose. But I'm not going to make excuses for her any more.

I'm mad that she left me. That she didn't take care of herself. That she didn't care. That she slowly, carefully, put herself on a suicidal mission. That she admitted to us that she was waiting to die. That not even watching my babies, present and future, was enough to break her. To pull her out. To make life worth living.

Why? Why? Why?! What made life so miserable that she wanted so desperately to escape it? What!?

I'm mad that I am mad at her.

I'm mad that she was never truly happy.

And most especially -

I'm mad that now I feel that I am not allowed to be truly happy,

because my mom never was.

That I have to feel and act miserable like my mom,

because it's what I know.

It's what I know.

Because we are supposed to be like our moms.

To want to be like our moms,

right?

I'm mad that I am caught in a cycle. One that I know I don't want to be in. But it's sucking, and pulling, and yanking, and churning. Down...

down....

down...

Stop.

No. I'll not have it. I'll not have that for my kids. Not my kids.

I know what I want to be.
What I want to always remember to be...

Cycle breaker

Gone Too Soon

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

I can't pretend to know what a loss like that must feel like. I imagine it's an empty, questioning place. A place I hope I never have to visit.

To all the mothers out there that have experienced that void and had to grieve the loss of a child's future, I want to say I admire you. I admire your courage. Because you are strong. And very brave.

I don't think I could be that strong. In fact, I think that is why I stay so guarded when I get pregnant. Naturally, the excitement is there. But I keep my distance from the embryo growing inside me. I don't let myself get attached. I can't. Because of the "what ifs". It's a precarious position to be in because the emotional connection is instinctual, but those "what ifs" keep my defenses up until time and security eventually open my heart completely.

Like I said, I don't know what a loss like that feels like, nor do I know how I would handle that trial if I had to. But this week has had me reflecting a lot on a tiny life I did know and love, and lost.

She was not an infant, but her life was still in its infancy.

Her name was Kylie. My first niece. She was a doll of a baby if ever there was one. Deep brown eyes, hair to match with naturally perfect ringlets, chubby chipmunk cheeks for storing her leftovers for later, facial expressions to tickle your heart, a laugh to melt it, and a smile to mold it back together. We called her "Smiley Kylie". And she was beautiful.

I was thirteen. The perfect age for being an aunt. Lots of energy and nothing around to divide my attention from giving it solely to my nieces and nephews. I loved playing with Kylie. Her laugh was infectious and it would keep me coming back for more. I treasure the memories I have of her. But sadly, I have only a handful.

Two months shy of her 2nd birthday Kylie died in a tragic accident. She drowned in her family's bathtub. And just like that - she was gone. The playful, vivacious, hilarious, beautiful little girl was taken from us. As were the dreams of her future. The picture of our futures with her.

It was a terrible, awful, miserable time.

I was only 13 but I still remember the sound of those frightening wails I finally emitted a week later when the reality hit. It was not the tearful sobbing of a child, but the deep, painful, moaning wails of a woman. The same ones I would be again surprised by while collapsed in my mother's closet, surrounded by her familiar clothes, a week after her passing. It's an indescribable sound. Born from an indescribable pain.

And though the tragedy of Kylie's death was devastating, I cannot imagine what my family would be without that experience.

My mom gave us each a framed quote soon after we lost Kylie:

Our Family

is a circle of strength

and love. With every birth

and every union the circle grows.

Every joy shared adds more love.

Every crisis faced together

makes the circle

stronger.

I believe, absolutely, that we are a stronger family because of that crisis.

From it came an undeniable testimony that our family is eternal. That we will see Kylie again. That through Christ's atonement we are given the opportunity and gift to prepare ourselves on this earth to be worthy of being with her. That we have huge responsibilities in this regard. That our temple sealings are not a trivial matter. They are paramount to our eternal happiness.

I am so grateful for this testimony. That I know my mother and Kylie are together. That it is something I can share, unquestionably, with my children. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not only truth. It is a resource. It holds the answers to our deepest questions and can fill our yearnings and desires. What a blessing it is to have this knowledge.

Without it, I would surely be lost. But with it, I am safely found.

Two lives gone too soon, but reunited at last - Kylie and her Grammy 1994

Results of a Mother's Passing

This is something I wrote for my friend's blog. She is amazingly brave and broaches very sensitive topics with tact and finesse. A week ago, she dedicated each day to a series on How to Support the Bereaved. She asked for my thoughts and feelings on losing my Mom and also how others have supported me with my grief.

After days of staring at a blank screen, here's what I came up with:

I didn't realize it until I tried, but it is impossible to put into words what it is like to lose a mother. I appreciate what the author of Life of Pi wrote after his main character experienced the loss of his entire family: "To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing - I'm sorry, I would rather not go on."

One thing I have learned from this trial is that everyone has a story. And those who have experienced a loss - while understanding in their sympathy - still understand that their loss is greater or more significant than another's. Because, of course, to them it is. And so it goes with me. Grievers are left to judge and compare - it is only natural, albeit, unproductive. But I will share with you my story and leave it to you to judge.

My mom died on a Wednesday. She went to the ER around 10 in the morning. Was told she would be fine at 4 in the afternoon. Had a pulmonary embolism at 6 in the evening. And that was it. No phone calls. No visits. No goodbyes. No "I love you's". She was gone.

I've heard it many times from others who have watched their loved ones die slowly from debilitating illnesses that "at least she didn't suffer." I nod and agree that, yes that would have been awful to witness. But at the same time I want to shout that "at least you were prepared. At least you got to say goodbye. At least you got to share an 'I love you'!" I felt no peace from her passing. It was not a welcomed release from years of painful misery. It was shock. It was tragedy. It was mind-numbing and clock-stopping. I was 26 years old. Just entering the throes of motherhood. Too young to no longer have a mother's care.

I think when a mom dies it makes you question your very existence: for you could not have existed without her, you have never existed without her, and yet somehow you are being forced to exist without her. The thought of having children without her guidance is still unbearable, let alone the thought of raising them.

One of the things that makes me so heartbroken over losing my Mom is that she had just begun to be my best friend. I would have never considered her my friend growing up, and especially not in high school. But becoming a wife and a mother gave me new eyes and I could see just how much I had to learn from Mom and what a great friend she was to me. I would call her twice a day, about this or that, or usually about nothing at all. And so it has been so hard to lose my mom, but even harder to lose my best friend and the potential and momentum that relationship was just gaining.

The moments I have found the most peace during my grieving process are the times that I have been able to share memories or stories with someone willing to listen - someone who does not make me feel uncomfortable talking about the deceased. I think that it is old-fashioned folklore to not mention the dead. My mom was so fantastic and amazing. Why wouldn't I want to talk about her? That is how memories are preserved. I want to share with others how silly my Mom was, how crafty and creative, how knowledgable and wise, how proper and polite, how loving and generous, and even how she had some qualities that I was embarrased by - how she was demanding and boisterous, judgmental and hypocritcal, prudish and lazy - and how I am more like my Mom than I ever would have imagined I could be, and proud of it.

And the thing I crave - the thing I hunger and thirst after without even realizing I am starving until it's served to me - are memories that others have of my Mom that they share. The time I had with her was only a small snippet of the rich life she led. She touched so many lives and served so many people. I long for stories from others. They make her more real to me. That she was not just a mom. She was a sister, a wife, a friend, a roommate, a neighbor, a daughter, a leader, a child, a student, an aunt, a cousin, an artist, a musician, a counselor, a teammate, a teacher. I love finding out about those areas of her life. I want to be so much like her.

I ache for my children to know their Grammy. For them to cuddle on her lap or receive one of her amazing hugs. I know they will not remember her. But they can still know her. They will know her through me. And I am finding that the greatest compliment someone can give me is, "You remind me of your Mother."

-------- A few helpful suggestions

Flowers are thoughtful, but when they die, it is simply another reminder of the death that is being experienced.

A book that was given as a gift to my family that we have all benefited from is Tear Soup by Pat Schweibert. It is what I now pass on to anyone I know that experiences a loss.

Be cautious in your comments. Don't say, "She is in a happier place." As much as I know that is true, I still want the time she spent here with me and her family to be where she was the happiest.

Don't be afraid to ask questions. And don't feel uncomfortable if mention of the deceased is made. Memories are a completely normal thing to share. It doesn't matter if it is a memory of someone alive or dead. The majority of my life's experiences involve my mom in one way or another. I don't want to have to lock those up simply because it makes someone else feel uncomfortable if I mention them.

A Little Bleak

It's hard to smile today.

And I'm afraid I haven't made very good company.

Today is one of those days you just wish would be over. One that you've known for years, months, and days would be coming, but don't grasp the full impact of the day until it hits you full force.

It's been two years now.

And I don't think it's getting any easier.

I miss my Mom.

Past entries about my Mom have been a little more uplifting. Sorry, I'm just not feelin' it today. But you can reflect with me here and here.

Where Were You?

I remember in Elementary school being given the assignment of asking my mom where she was when JFK was assassinated. She was in class at BYU when the news was announced. And though she didn't have an elaborate story to share about the experience, I thought it was intriguing that she actually remembered where she was. I wondered if anything so significant as that would happen in my lifetime.

My third year in high school I was on my first date with a boy I was actually interested in. We were walking in to the movie theater to see "Excess Baggage" (dumb show by the way) when a guy in the group got an alert on his cell phone that Princess Diana had died in a car crash. Wow, that seemed significant. And though it didn't have a direct impact on me, I made note of where I was so I would be able to tell my children when, and if, they were ever given the same assignment that I had.

Then my third year of college rolled around. I was sleeping in one morning, missing another session of my laborious, early-morning music theory class. Suddenly I awoke to my roommate bursting into the room yelling that the Twin Towers in New York had been bombed. Actually, I don't remember what she was yelling. I was trying to sleep. But she seemed frantic enough, that I decided to indulge her and got out of bed and walked into the front room where the tv was on. I sat down in shock and watched as two icons of America burned. Then my shock turned to horror as they crumbled to the ground. It still seems like a dream, especially since I was awakened in such a panic and honestly thought I was dreaming. I think I remember going to my afternoon classes, though most of them were canceled and students walked around campus in a daze. Did something so tragic as that really happen? Here in America? We knew nothing of such attacks. It was unfathomable. And now, eight years later, it still seems so surreal. The hundreds of lives that were lost, the terror that struck the nation. I still can't comprehend it all. And though it was tragic and uncomprehendable, and I cried during the news stories and memorial services, it didn't directly affect me. But I definitely remember where I was.

And then my third year of motherhood came around. While exchanging some Christmas gifts at Macey's I got a call on my husband's cell phone, which I had with me. It was my sister. Mom had a seizure and was in critical condition. Details unknown. Pray for her. I went into a dressing room stall and knelt down, unsure what to say. I wanted so badly to pray that Mom would be okay. That everything would be fine. But as the tears streamed down my cheek the only thing I could find myself saying was to bless the doctors to know how to help her and most especially to bless my dad. I spent what seemed like an eternity on that dressing room floor trying to understand what it meant. Why couldn't I pray for her? But I knew why. And as I got that second phone call while walking out of the store entrance red-faced and puffy-eyed, and I heard the words "she is gone," it was simply a confirmation of what I already knew had happened. I couldn't pray for her to live because she had already passed to the other side. And though I was in hysterics, crying uncontrollably on that drive home from the mall, I was so grateful to have had that prayerful realization. It made that awful and life-altering loss mildly bearable. And I will ALWAYS remember where I was that day.

A Stranger Held My Baby

I let a stranger hold my baby.

She sat in the carseat while I focused my attention on the minor league ball game in front of me. I was happy to have my arms free for a moment while she sat contentedly. That's when a stranger approached and asked to hold her.
While it caught me off-guard, I was glad to oblige.

We got to talking about her own children. She had five. But lost her fifth two months before. My heart broke for her. But I was amazed at how well she was doing emotionally while holding my baby. She said it was the second baby she had held since losing her own. She broke down with the first.

I asked how she lost her baby.
He lived only 14 hours. He had Edwards syndrome - a chromosome disorder. I saw pictures on her cell phone. I saw how his hands bent awkwardly and one forearm was missing. His feet were clubbed and his face flat and plain.
But somehow he still looked perfect. He was precious. A perfect little spirit.
She said how grateful she was to have known ahead of time the disorder he had. How blessed she felt to be given fourteen hours with her warm, breathing babe. That he blew a lot of spit bubbles while he was awake; a memory that will always make her smile even when the aching bites.

I enjoyed talking with her - asking questions and hopefully allowing her an outlet to dispel some grief. Having a baby is something a mother wants to shout out and share with the world. The birth of any child is an absolute miracle! But when that miracle is no longer a tangible being to hold as a trophy for all to see, then all that is left is the story. And I'm sure that story wants to be shared, perhaps even more so than the actual child.
The credit is deserved and needed.

I don't know how I would react or handle such a trial.

But soon the conversation ended and my baby was given back. I held her close and marveled at her perfect fingers and toes. I watched her sleeping eyes move rapidly and her beautiful lips form half smiles in her sleepy state.
My heart was full with my daughter in my arms and the carseat left empty.

Scatter-Brained

I haven't posted for a while. There has been a lot on my mind - but it is all scattered.

--------
What do we name our daughter? My top picks: Taryn, Serene, Sunshine, Jeanne... And for what date do we want to schedule her delivery?
--------
Wondering how well or to what degree I bond with my babies in their fetal state... Wondering what kind of devastation I would feel if I lost one, because I stay so guarded... Thinking about my friend who was due the same week as me, but delivered a few days ago and unfortunately lost her baby... Knowing I would indeed be heartbroken, but still wondering to what degree... It's hard to know how I would react to such a personal loss without having actually gone through it... Praying I never do... Reading through my eloquent friend's blog who recently lost her premature twins, for any good advice to pass on... Crying without warning at random moments...
------
Should I wear my glasses today?
------
Dreading my c-section and the recovery... But anxious to meet our little girl...
------
Trying to find someone to watch my kids when Greg and I both have to work... Wishing we had family close by... Arguing with Greg about my job... Wondering if and when to quit it... Not wanting my superviser to regret having hired me... Feeling numb...
-----
Should we sell our house? Move back to Arizona? Find a cheap apartment?
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Helping Greg look for jobs... Nothing...
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Thinking about the cycle of service... Sometimes I'm the one that needs it... Like a year ago last winter - baby delivery, Mom passing, gall bladder surgery... Having to put away my pride to ask for and accept help... Sometimes I'm the one that can give it... I like those times... And then sometimes I'm the one that needs it again... Wishing we had family close by...
-----
Wondering how to get Evan to tell me when he needs to go potty... Constantly being surprised by Zion's recent babbling and the hearty voice that comes out of her petite little mouth...
-----
What do we name our baby?

An Anniversary

It's been a busy day, and I'm glad. Today is the one year anniversary of the sudden passing of my dear and lovely mother. And so if today were not a busy day then I would be emotionally exhausted with bright red, puffy eyes and an empty box of kleenex. I've had too many of those days this week in preparation for this one. So instead, it was a busy day to keep my mind entertained. A relaxing trip to the temple, visiting a friend in the hospital who just had a beautiful baby boy after finding out only 3 weeks ago that she was pregnant (yup! 9 mos along and didn't know it - wouldn't that be somethin'!), tidying up and napping, then a trip with the kids to the Treehouse Museum where they could run around to their hearts content (just preferably in the same direction since I can't split in half - we're still working on that), and now the house is full of grown men acting like teenagers at a Nintendo party hosted by my very own teenager with grey hair named Greg. I'm sure I will have time tonight to fully inhale and comprehend what my life has been like this past year without my mother as my best friend. But for now, I'm glad for the distractions. Sometimes it is just easier that way.

Thoughts on Losing my Mom

written January 08

My mom is gone

I feel so lost

and just so very alone.

Too much of life

now I must live

motherless, on my own.

My mom is gone,

so strange to say,

she's always been there before;

a telephone call,

a problem to solve,

her helping hand there no more.

"It isn't fair!"

I want to scream,

"I need my mom back Now!"

Why did she leave

without saying goodbye?

I need to hear that somehow.

I am too young

to not have my mom

to help me down life's dark roads.

How do I raise

my innocent kids

without Mom to lighten the load?

How do I teach them

to love my mom,

their Grammy they will never know?

The laughs and smiles,

the cuddly hugs,

the joy shared watching them grow?

I have still so much

I need to learn

from my life's greatest teacher.

Who will I turn to

now in my need?

Oh, I wish that I could reach her.

Why weren't "I love you"

the last words I said?

Did she know it to last forever?

Did she know of my love

and gratitude for

all the time we spent together?

Why don't I only

feel darkness and gloom?

Someone must be saying a prayer.

Surprisingly now,

I feel strong somehow

from those prayers being said somewhere.

I know the ending

so beautiful there,

when reunited we all will be.

But that glorious day

seems so very far;

Yet mere minutes in eternity.

Again we'll embrace

in that long hug I've missed,

with smiles across our faces.

Until then find joy

in the memories;

feel her spirit in so many places.

One Year

It's been one year since I saw her last.
It's not so uncommon for that time to pass.
Years gone to school while she on a mission
Occasions to see her were frequently missing.
So why then does one year stand out among others?
Why has this last year been so hard to suffer?
I remember that trip to the Arizona sun,
Playing with family until the turkey was done.
Getting together for Zion's blessed day,
She held my baby in her very special way.
I vividly remember that last Sabbath meeting
she saw many old friends with a happy greeting.
One year exactly I remember so well.
Strange that a homecoming should be our farewell.
The last smile, the last hug, the last look from her;
the warmth that her presence always could stir
are all only memories tucked carefully away
No longer to be seen or heard or displayed.
But the heart-breaking memory is lovely nonetheless
Within it I still feel my mother's caress
Her loving arms around my shoulders
the gaze on my baby that says she loves her,
The embrace for my toddler that means the same;
her undoubted love never will feign.
For she is my mother then and for always
And that memory of love will forever stay.

Busy Body

I've been busy.
I've been busy looking through pictures.
I've been busy sifting through memories.
I've been busy getting all emotional.
I've been busy taking advantage of free offers.

I've been busy working on this.