So today it happened.
I got a text addressed to you, reminding me that you were overdue for your eye appointment, and "eyesight is very important, so please call and schedule."
Yeah...
I don't think you really need that anymore.
I tried so hard to avoid those. I made sure that everyone at Primary's and their affiliates were notified. I called the eye glasses place. I forgot that we had been referred to a surgical eye specialist. They're not with IHC or Primary's.
They didn't know.
Now they do.
Twenty-two months, 95 weeks, Friday into Saturday again.
Wednesday I planted 175 flowers and bulbs, many of them in your garden, mostly pansies and tulips. I wondered at the time if I was jumping the gun a little. I mean, it wasn't too early to plant those, but I felt a little bad pulling out and cutting the zinnias, marigolds, sweetpeas, petunias and snapdragons. I cut down all the balloon flowers and lilies out front. But I also reasoned that if I waited for a hard frost, I also had no desire to be out there.
Thursday morning I got up and looked outside. Was that a hard frost after all? Nope, it was snow! Not a lot. The grass is short and was still poking up through it. But yes, snow. And I was glad I'd done all that work before.
Your blanket and hospital gown no longer smell like you. I no longer wake thinking I forgot your meds. Someone asked me why I always wear a butterfly and I asked if they wanted the real reason, or the reason I tell my clients (since there are a bunch of butterflies in each office). He quickly said he didn't mean to pry and I told him it wasn't a problem.
I've been wearing butterflies for over 15 years now, for you, for your friends. For all the children gone too soon. I told him my watch band is from the beads I used to make your trach chains, and he responded that it was almost like a memorial tattoo.
I hadn't thought of that, but he's right. And so is my watch face, and my phone screen. Quiet pieces of you, and of Gramma, that I always carry with me. Yellow roses and butterflies.
Gramma's roses still bloom. Pansies are planted around them. And your solar lights still light up the garden. I don't sit out there anymore 'cause I don't like the cold. But I still see them, see the rainbows scattered by various prisms around the house, some given to me by friends, and two by Gramma.
You know, it actually didn't hurt as much as I feared it would when I saw that text this morning, more of a quiet ache than an overwhelming gut punch.
Maybe I'm learning to carry it, at least for a moment.
I still miss you.
Love,
Mama
"The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief."
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