that's how the light gets in

the truth is that I can't wait for this to day to be over. three hours, forty-three minutes and it will officially be over. I know that's not what I'm supposed to say. it's certainly not how I'm supposed to feel. but there it is. first mother's day without the extraordinary woman who brought me into this world and the minutes are crawling by.

I want one more mother's day with her. one more chance to tell her how much I love her. one more chance to spoil her with fancy face creams and papery pink peonies, with little things for her collections and bright yellow boxes of candy dots and handmade cards. actually, I want more than one more mother's day with her. I want all of the days, all of them. I know I can't have them but I want them.

I would be remiss if I did not mention how hard my own little family tried to make the day just a little bit softer for me. fresh cut tulips, watercolor paintings, hand-drawn portraits. cupcakes. photobooths. still, the day has been wobbly, at best. I knew it, they knew it. what else could we do but muddle through? the best gift I received came just after lunch, in the form of a small, sweet hand in mine. I'd turned away so they would not see me cry and both of them came to me, both my kids, and they sat there in that pain with me while I told them. in a small voice that did not even sound like my own, I told them. I miss my mom. I just really really miss my mom.

I told them I was sorry I'd been so grouchy and so quiet, that I would try not to be grouchy and quiet for the rest of the afternoon. which is when the day broke open a little, just enough to let a little light in. and you know, it's true what they say about the cracks in things, that that's how the light gets in. it's true. because that's how we got through today. that's how I'll get through these last few hours.

and I will say it, even though she can't hear me. I will say it every year that I'm alive, I will say it because I can. happy mother's day, mom. I love you.