Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

I haven’t decided how I feel about these “You have a memory with so-and-so” notifications. Facebook loves to remind me of the past as much as my own mind. Of course, I can just stay off of Facebook for the whole month of April if I really didn’t want to see these. But, more often than not, I want to see them.

It takes me back just five short years ago. Each little memory put in place by Senior Year Hannah. Prom shopping, UIL competition, birthday celebrations, going to see Wicked for the first time, all of the little moments in between. Each just as memorable as the last. As though it was yesterday. Even the early morning walks before your trip to Germany — I can still feel the (almost uncomfortable) warmth of the sun on my arms and the firmness of the concrete underneath my shoes and feeling of companionship as we walked side-by-side, sometimes talking, sometimes not (because I am not now and was not then a morning person). The feeling of excited anticipation as we determined that we would pick up those walks as soon as you had recovered from your surgery. I looked forward, not only to the motivation to exercise, but the opportunity to talk to you. To know you.

I don’t know that I ever told you this then, but on those few walks we had, I really fought to have something to talk about each time. I loved just walking with you. But I also felt a need even then to talk about something important. To get your opinion on something. To know you better. But, more often than not, I just couldn’t think of even the simplest questions to ask. So, we would just walk in silence.

And now, I have Facebook to remind me of those moments. The last moments with you here. The ones that were well-lived and the ones that were wasted. I can thank God that there are more of the former than the latter, but there are a couple of regrets.

Maybe that’s the thing. The memory reminders not only highlight the good moments, but can also evoke the now regrets of not taking advantage of every moment. Or, they also remind me that I’m remembering less.

It’s been five years. It’s hard to remember exactly what you said. It’s hard to remember even the timeline of the week before — will that last week also become a faded memory? I wasn’t ready to say “Good-bye” then, and I don’t think I’m ready even now. So, I keep looking at those memories. I keep looking back and remembering as much as I can. I keep re-reading those comments of the subsequent days from those who knew you. There are few people consistently in my life who knew you. Who can do more than just listen to my memories, but share their own. And even share memories that I wasn’t a part of. (Those are some of my favorites because it’s almost like making a new memory of you.)

Maybe next year those memory reminders won’t be so bitter and be more sweet. Until then, I’ll just take a moment and then live the day. There is “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4). Often, I’ve found these times to be within the same day. And sometimes, it’s even been at the same time. But, as the grammatical definition of the article “a” demonstrates a definitive nature, this “time” has a beginning and end. It is not forever.

God has shown us what forever will look like. It will be a place of “no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). And you’re already there! One day. One day, I’ll be there, too, and what a glorious day that will be!

Your daughter,
Hannah