My birthday hurt.
The holidays will be hard.
Mother’s Day will bring me to my knees.
But, more than those times, I will miss you in the margins. Those little places in life that shouldn’t matter, but they do.
When I’m walking to the parking lot and I don’t have to slow down to make sure you’re ok–that you are behind me and making progress. Knowing that if I stop to wait you will also stop and glare at me until I go again. No special treatment for you. No acknowledgment that your steps are slowing. That I might not have you forever.
When I’m shopping and wishing I had just lost you in the aisles like so many times before. Desperately hoping to find you around the next corner enraptured with an olive bar or a new kind of cheese. Or talking to some stranger about Le Mis.
When I’m in Hobby Lobby and I want to call and tell you the thing I just saw is perfect. Perfect to make us smile. Perfect to make Amy smile. Just perfect.
When I see someone wearing an outfit and I want to turn around and raise an eyebrow and then watch your eyes search the crowd until you find the outfit too. I want you to mouth, “Who wears that?” I want to shrug and grin and pull you away before you embarrass us.
I want to hear your phone ring and I want you to answer. I want to take a few minutes to talk about you and then I want you to let me whine. Just for a minute or two.
” Things are moving too fast.”
” My feet hurt.”
“I know I’m supposed to like her, but I don’t.”
All the little things you only tell your Mom. I realize more and more how much of me you absorbed.
All my pieces that don’t please. That aren’t charming. You took those and sent them back to me smoothed out.
I was always likable when you were in the room.
I really, really miss that.
