For Mom -- One Year Later

Hey mom.

It's been a year.

It feels like yesterday though.  I'm still having a really hard time with you being gone.  I know I've said this before -- I'll forget that you're gone, and then suddenly remember, and it's like I've been hit by a freight train.  My breath gets sucked out of me.  I keep wanting to ask where you've gone off shopping to this time, or when you'll be home.  I'll have some down time and think that maybe I should call you and see what's new.

Last year, at this time, I kept telling Erik, "She was just here!  How can she be gone?"  You were just walking down the steps.  You were just sitting in our kitchen.  You were just next to me on the bench outside the store.  You were just holding Michael's hand at lunch.  I just don't understand it.

While we were at the hospital last year, waiting for news on you, all I could think about what how I'd walk into the room where you were and joke with you about giving us a good scare.  I was going to see about getting you transferred to a hospital closer to us if they were going to make you stay a few days.

I sit up on our hill while Jacob plays and remember how you always said that you loved our backyard.  That it was like a park.  And the Christmas ornament you got us reminded you of that -- which is why you got it.  

I know you didn't want me to be sad today.  It started out that way.  I was reminding Jacob that when we got to New Ken and to your house that our family might be sad today and we might cry a little because we miss you.  He said he knew, and it was okay -- he'd be here for us.  And he was.  And so were Michael and Andrew.  They kept us busy and laughing.  It was just like you were here.

I guess what makes me the most sad is knowing what you're not physically here to see and experience with us.  I hope that there is some element of an after-life that allows you share everything with us in some way.  I try to believe in Heaven.  I try to believe that you're right there, watching everything that happens.  I try to believe that you're holding and rocking your lost babies and my lost babies.  I try to believe that you've got Babcia and Dziadzia with you.  I try to believe that you laugh with us (and at us).  I try to believe that you wish you could reach out and talk to us or hug us.

I'm still very angry that you're gone.  I still don't understand why you had to go when you did.  I still feel guilty -- like there was something I could have or should have done, and you'd still be with us today.  I still feel like it's my fault.

I miss you, mom.  I try to believe that you know that.  And I try to believe that you tell me, "It's okay, Sarah-tamara.  It's okay."