I’m in California this week, working. My days are fueled with forced smiles, beautiful views, and empathetic nods. It’s a good trip so far. But every time I have to talk about me, I always talk about you.
My story, though simple to an outsider, is so incredibly complex, because of you. “I have an angel in Heaven,” I often explain, usually met with befuddled eyes and a glance downward.
Last night I connected with a colleague who attended the same university as Daddy and me, and is expecting a baby with his young wife who also attended the school. So similar, our stories. Until I speak of you.
But when I tell him of you, it’s with such pride, and I’m not searching for pity. I want everyone to know that I got to be your mom. That I’m still mothering you, every second of every day, just in a little bit different way than how I parent your brother.
That pride, that glee, that enthusiasm for being your mom will never cease. And just because you aren’t here shouldn’t mean we have to end the conversation. I wish that those I tell didn’t shy away, and asked more questions. About your life, even your loss, just so we can keep talking. I love to talk about you.
All the way across the country and I know you are here. I see your little messages. The bubbles floating across the busy city street. The perfect crescent moon. The sky, the mountains, the bay.
You are a part of all of it.
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