Not Today.

by Dian Reid-Jancic· Follow Dian on

I woke up this morning like just about any other Monday morning:

Alarm clock noise insisting it was no longer the weekend, and also that I should really get out of bed and go for a run.

Fine. In just a minute. 

[Five minutes later] HOW ABOUT RIGHT NOW.

Fine.

A short run later as I was getting ready for work, grabbing a bite to eat and some coffee I looked at my watch and noticed the date.

June 27.

Back in 1991 this was the day that changed my life forever, although I wouldn’t know it until the following day. It wasn’t until the 28th I learned that my mom had been killed the day before.

It took me roughly a decade (and almost as many years in therapy) before I didn’t think about her death and its impact on my life every single day. At first I would dread birthdays and holidays and any special (or random normal) day I wished I could still share with my mom. Until one day I noticed I wasn’t doing that anymore.

It wasn’t a single day where I simply decided to stop noticing she was gone, but more that my life had begun to be more about me living my life than living it without her. I miss my mom when I think about her, but not always in the sad, longing ways I did in the first decade after she died.

Most moments my mom pops into my mind I’m able to laugh and remember her smile, her sense of humor, and know that I’m me because she was her. But today is not one of those days.

Today I sit here and while I remember her laugh, her smile, her sense of humor, her way of being, I find myself longing to hear that laugh, see that smile, beckon that sense of humor, be a part of her way of being.

The kind of longing where lumps line up in the back of your throat just in case crying lodges one of them loose.

Today I find myself longing to feel her arms wrapped around me, comforting me in a loss felt so deeply, even 25 years of knowing everything is going to be okay without her, it’s still sometimes never going to be.

Lump.

Today I find myself angry with my memory that I can’t quite recall the sound of her voice in my head. And so very sad at that, too.

Lump.

Today there are no words, no arms, no laughs, no smiles to take the place of my mom’s.

Lump.

Most days I’m okay with that.

Lump.

But not today.

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