I don’t want to forget you, but I’m afraid that is exactly what’s happening. I’m sorry Momma.
I remember the day you died in vivid detail, yet the events still seem like a fog. The moment I heard Daddy say, “it’s your Momma baby;” after that things were never the same.
I didn’t know what it was like to feel my heart ache, like the actual muscle inside my chest felt as if it were clinching so tightly that it would simply dissolve into itself.
Sure my tired eyes felt like they were burning from so many spent tears, and my raw throat stung from so many wailing cries, but it was the nonphysical that hurt the most. It was that void inside, down deep that longed to hear your voice one last time. That was what caused me real pain. I don’t think I knew pain until then.
This morning I woke up, and I had forgotten you Momma. It’s your birthday, and I didn’t even remember.
I bring flowers to your grave, and I talk to your granddaughters about you. But as we walked away from your gravestone today I realized I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry last year either. Does that mean I’m forgetting how much I love you?
It just took so much out of me. Missing you. Wanting to call you, and spill my deepest fears or darkest secrets. There’s something so devastating about repeated disappointment. I have to be completely honest. I think I forgot about you on purpose Momma. It just hurt too much to remember.
Today as I walked away from your grave the memory of you called to me, and I was compelled to turn back around. I looked at the purple flowers, and I thought of you.
The hot tears came like I knew they would, and then I called to your eldest grandchild, the one who is bright, and a jokester just like you. “Wanna sing Happy Birthday to my Momma?”
And we did. I sang, and she sang, and afterwards she said, “Race me to the van Momma!” Then she took off like a light.
I let her win because in that moment I was remembering you. “Happy Birthday Momma.” I whispered. I knew I could never forget you.
Until we meet again.
Amy says
Loved Marty and still think of her a lot. I tell my children about the things we did growing up and your mom is in most of the tales. I hope you know how proud she would be of you! Love you my friend!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much my friend. Your words are really appreciated.
Teresa Julian says
Gut and heart wrenching. I lost my mom when I was 19. She was 49 & without warning, died of a brain aneurysm. I am now 54 & everyday I miss her. Time doesn’t take away the pain. It dulls it a bit. Thank you for this piece.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much for commenting and sharing. My Mom was 54. Miss her so much, but have the peace of a reunion in the hereafter.
Denise says
Aww Brie….Your mom is with you in so many ways and, though we have not met, I believe that you are a beautiful representation of her. You’ll never forget her.. No worries…. Know that she is in the loving arms of God and heaven is celebrating today with your mom. No wonder the sun was shining in Saint Louis today!!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thanks so much Denise! You never fail to make me smile!
ruthiespage says
This is so heart wrenching and precious too. I love you Brie
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you Ruthie. I love you too.
Iesha Smith says
I’ll never forget that day either, Brie, as long as I live. I’m so thankful that I knew Mrs. Marty!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much. 🙂