The Older I Get, the More I Miss My Momma and the More I Trust the Father
It seems an eternity ago. And then again, it’s as new as yesterday. At the young age of twenty, I had to say goodbye to my Momma—entirely against my will, against my hopes, against my plans. The very treatment that led to a cure for her cancer ultimately introduced complications over which her tiny tired body just couldn’t triumph.
Until I became a mother myself, Mother’s Day was nearly unbearable. It’s still hard . . .
Oh, Mother—sometimes it feels like I’ve forgotten—like it’s hard to remember. Were you just a dream—some peaceful, perfect existence among us? Did I conjure you up in my mind to fit a space or fill a void?
I can’t hear you. I can’t smell you. I can’t see you. It’s been so very, very long—and the tears have never been completely gone. It’s still not okay that you’re not here. While the shock of your passing has faded, the void in my heart seems to expand by a few miles with every passing year, with every passing milestone, with every passing excitement—all those times I’d love to text you a picture and tell you my thoughts.
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