Living without her

I've had the greatest intentions of spending more time on my blog, but it hasn't worked out that way. I've had the hardest time staying focused or caring to put my thoughts down for me to see. Let alone anyone else. 

The truth is, I'm struggling to succeed at overcoming grief. So many things have changed, and there's much more left to settle out. It's been nine months since I talked to my mother. Nine months of silence. Nine months of missing her like crazy. And in those nine months I've learned one thing for certain. There is not one person on this earth who can fill her void in my life. And I don't know what to do with myself. 

I was at her house the other day, sitting in her room. It's not easy looking at her things, all the while wishing she was there. Very little has changed there since she left us, except for Carrie's things that are in Mom's room. Which makes it all that much more difficult. Carrie's sweater sitting on the bed, a reminder she too is gone. It's like a knife in the hand. 

I know what a broken heart feels like. It's what I feel like almost every day. Waking up to the remembrance they are both gone from my life. Knowing I can never speak to either of them again. The hardest part of it all is the separation. The loss of communication.    

So instead of being able to talk to Mom, I find myself looking through her Christmas notebooks. She has lists that date from 1986 to last Christmas. Her 2017 list she was working so hard to finish, still incomplete. 

I love to see her handwriting and how meticulous she was about keeping a record of all she gave. 

I love seeing my name in her hand. 

1986
Lisa - house door stop - heart bracelet 

In 1986 my mother gave me a house door stop, and I'm certain the heart bracelet is 1980's fabulous, in my jewelry box. 

But the real treasure, for me, is her handwriting. I sat there lost in her words, wishing so desperately that I was waiting for her to come in the room and settle in for a chat. 

I need to talk to her. And I want her to talk back to me.  

Mom never told me everything would be OK. She let me talk through whatever it was I wanted to say. No matter what it was. It was Mom and me. Her understanding....because she was Mom. And she was mine. Lots of times our talks were about learning to let go. Letting my children go. Watching them leave.  

I wish....she were here to sit with me as I try to figure it out. 

I wish....I could hear her voice. 

I think it ironic that I want to talk to her about letting go, when that's what I have to do with her. 

A friend once told me you are never old enough to lose your mother. She was right. 

I'm 59 years old and I've lost my mother. 

And I feel lost without her.