Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I suppose that the act of writing this letter means I'm starting to accept that you're gone.

I don't know how I'm supposed to live without my mother.

You didn't prepare me for this.

I've spent my entire life worrying about you in some form or fashion.

Worrying about what you'd think of whatever rash decision I was certain to be on the precipice of making.

Worrying about your ever-worsening health.

Worrying about whether or not you'd notice the weight I'd either lost or gained since we'd seen each other last. 

(Spoiler Alert: You always noticed. Carefully worded reprimands if I'd gained, exuberant congratulations for a loss, unfortunately it's taken me years to rid myself of the habit of worrying about my weight before a trip home. But one good thing has come from this experience. I've made damn sure that my daughter knows I will ALWAYS welcome her home with open arms, and will never, EVER comment, or give a flying fuck, about her weight.)

I've lived in Chicago for the past two decades and every vacation I've planned has taken into consideration YOUR needs first. 

Could Lorenzo and I take Amira to Vegas or had we not yet visited you enough that year to be able to justify this trip?

Was there a way I could sneak in a trip to see you while visiting Jewel in Jersey?

I think a lot of it is a Bajan daughter thing.

And I guess a lot of it is just me.

Or us.

I don't know.

I was sickly as a child.

And now, as the mother of a sickly kid myself, I can see how that could create a closer (more codependent) bond.

I don't know.

I just know that you're gone and...

I feel all the cliche feels.

Empty, lost, blank.

For all of my lifelong complaining,

I really miss my mom.