Who Would You Be Now?

Writing to Remember

Originally written Thursday, May 21, 2015

Dear Mom,

This week would have been your 31st wedding anniversary—two days ago to be exact. I wonder what you would be like now. It’s only been two years (and almost eight months), but it feels like a lifetime has passed. Dad, Austin and I are going to Montana on Monday. We’ve done some small weekend trips together, but this is the first week-long vacation we’ve had since you’ve been gone. Excited and nervous. Not knowing what to expect. Not knowing how strange it’ll feel without you. I know you’d love to be there with us and in a lot of ways you will be—in a lot of ways you won’t though.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to spend time with Dad and Austin and not focus on the fact that I don’t get to have my whole family with me anymore. I’m so tired, Mom. I keep stretching myself too thin, and I know you’d be telling me to slow down. It’s just that I don’t know how to slow down anymore. I feel like I have to keep going because I have nothing to sit and enjoy. I know that isn’t true, but in this moment it feels that way. I can’t enjoy the quiet and rest. I want relief from the grief.

I miss you. So much, I miss you. And so much, I feel like I don’t know you anymore. Who would you be now? Would you still be sad? Would it have gotten worse? Would it have gotten better? Would you have found peace from the pain? Would you no longer be sick? Would you be able to enjoy our family? Would you be able to enjoy rest? I want you here to enjoy me now and whatever the future holds for me.

I wish you would have thought before you let go. I know you couldn’t have been thinking—the sickness took over and you couldn’t comprehend what you were doing and that you were leaving us. But I so wish you could have connected with yourself because you wouldn’t have done that. You were there for so many—an incredible friend who loved so well—everyone, not just our family. You wouldn’t have left any of us. I’m trying to remember that. I love you, Mom.

Watch over Dad, Austin and me next week. Help us to enjoy our time together and lean on God during the waves of peace, contentment and the waves of restlessness, missing. Help us to feel your presence and honor you by showing our love for one another. I’ll try to be outdoors-y for you and make you proud, Mom—I’ll hike without complaining and promise to appreciate nature.

Love always,

Meri Kate