I have nothing to say and I have everything to say.
In April, when my mother became sick and was hospitalized, I was motivated to continue to post here because my father could share my posts with my mom, and she enjoyed having that little window into the outside world and the things that the kids and I were doing.
And with her gone, it’s hard to think of doing that again, and her never seeing it.
But if you had the pleasure of knowing my mother, you know that if she loved a thing, she absolutely wanted to share it. From the Maine blueberry cake she baked–often in multiple versions to accommodate food allergies–to the mountains we hiked to the monarch butterflies she protected to the books she read to me as a child and then read to her preschoolers and campers, my mother shared the things she loved. Friends traveled to her funeral from all over the country to share the ways in which my mother had touched and inspired their lives.
And so my hope in trying to write again is to try to share a bit of what I love with the world, as I think she would have wanted me to do.
So many of the things close to my heart are the things that she taught me to appreciate, which makes this a more meaningful and a more painful pursuit. I love my mother because she’s the woman who gave birth to me and cared for me, but I think that if we’d been strangers and met as adults I would have loved her, too. We were kindred spirits that way. So I feel her loss on many levels.
When people ask how I’m doing, I usually answer, “I’m here.”
Which really means, “I am here, and my mother is not.”