June 1969 |
Ten years...it can feel like yesterday or it can feel like a lifetime ago.
Ten years ago…June 2001. Maybe your life was better or maybe it wasn’t. Since then you may have found someone who is important to you, or you may have lost someone important.
Ten years ago this month I lost my mother. She was dynamic, fearless, and ambitious. She was only fifty-nine years old—and she had breast cancer.
Ten years ago today I sat through her memorial service, which felt as surreal then as the memory of it does now. If I said I didn’t cry every single day for the first few years after her death, I would be lying. If I said getting out of bed on all those mornings seemed impossible, I would be telling you the truth. If I said there is a hole in my heart and that I miss her more than words can say, that would be an understatement; and if I said the hurt on every anniversary of her death feels as painful as it did on the actual day of her death, well, that would be my reality.
Ten years...sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago. I hate it that I can’t remember the sound of her laugh but thankfully I can still see her smile and the way her upper lip flattened out over her perfect teeth. For the life of me I can't see into the depths of her eyes but I can remember the breadth of her love and the vastness of her spirit, which was always visable in those brown eyes.
July 6, 1984 |
I can not picture her walk, but I can hear it. Her footsteps were always heavy and purposeful, and sometimes they still wake me up at night.
I can picture her hands; small and soft, and I know that I would recognize her fingers—especially the one with the short thick nail, the one she hated; the one that a bull had hooked on a barbwire fence. Yet, it kills me to admit that I don’t think I would recognize her voice. Time has stolen that from me.
Dec. 25, 1993 |
I can still imagine the feel of her thick, red hair, which I used to bend around a curling iron. But to this day I still get sick to my stomach when I think about her wig, a memory that time refuses to rob.
Try as I might I’m unable to remember if her hugs were high around my neck or low around my waist, but I do recall that they were long and tight and that she hugged first, and let go last. If I close my eyes I can remember the feel of her fingertips lightly tracing the pattern of my face, tickling my forehead as I lay with my head in her lap.
Time is an indiscriminate thief of memories, randomly taking one and thoughtfully leaving another. It may have robbed me of certain recollections but it can't steal the feelings of those memories, which are just as fresh, deep and real today as they were a decade ago. And I imagine as they will be a decade from now.
Ten years...some days it feels like yesterday, some days it feels like a lifetime ago.
Nov 28, 1996 |
Di Anne Marie Grimm
11/28/41 ~ 6/14/01