Missing Her

Missing Her

Repeated with love, for those who miss their someone.

She’s here.
Hunkered cozily in my head like she does every now and again, whispering a holiday hello.
I can feel her.
She has blanketed herself around me.
She’s so loving, so happy.

I’m usually grateful when she stops by because she continually reminds me that she is fine, all is ok
& I know she’s right.
I KNOW she is right.
She is ok.
All is good.

But this time, instead of being happy for her, I am sad for me.
This time I am on my knees, knocked down by the reality that it’s Christmastime, again
& she’s gone.

She’s Gone.

I miss you, Mom.
I miss you so bad I can hardly stand it.
I miss your smile, your voice and your silliness.
I miss your cooking, your baking, your decorating.
I miss how you love this holiday.
I miss how you love us.

I need you to come back, Mom.
Please, please come back.
You do Christmas so much better.
Your shopping finesse, your gift wrapping skill, your joy of the season.
I can’t do it Mom.
I just can’t do it
& I miss you so, so much.

Then suddenly, subtly …
spaghetti sauce, a split second, unmistakable scent of spaghetti sauce.
Attached with a memory of heartbroken sisters
& their words …
We will never be able to make sauce like Ma.

My mother and her gentle, knock upside the head, Oh Yes, You Can ! reminder.
Oh. Yes. You. Can.
Because Oh Yes, They Did.
Those grieving sisters carried on that day and made my Grandmother’s spaghetti sauce just like Gramma taught them.
They held onto tradition.
They made it their own

& poof.
Just like that.
Mom fluttered off and I feel a thousand times better.

I’m happy for her again, not sad for me.
Because I know, I KNOW she is perfectly content and wonderfully fine
& I know I can, I will do this.
Christmas and New Year and Easter and everything in between
I’ve held onto tradition.
I’ve made it my own.

Just like you taught me, Mom.
Just like you taught me.


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