Ten years later, life without my mom is, in some ways, as difficult as it was after ten minutes, ten days, ten weeks, and ten months without her. She's missed too many moments: Claire's first birthday, which we celebrated weeks after she died, and Miles' 13th birthday, which we just celebrated yesterday; the birth of Hazel, Jack, Emily, and-just a year ago-Eliana; trips to Florida and the beach and the cottage; my job changes and Grant's self-taught home remodel; Christmas mornings and piano recitals and t-ball games; impassioned conversation about the state of the world; toasts and tears; the mundane and the majestic.
The six smiling faces pictured below bring me hope on nights like this, as do each one of you--her people, our people, the ones who faithfully prayed and showed up and continue to do so year after year after year.
Cheryl Strayed writes so accurately about grief when she says "It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have." That's what I have been trying to do for the 5,256,000 minutes I've existed without her, and it's the only way forward.
