There are a half-dozen grapefruit on your memorial tree right now, Mom. We'll probably have them for New Year's Eve. I think of you every time I look at the new trees.
It's been seven months since you died, and it still doesn't feel quite real to me. I keep thinking of things I want to make for you: a pair of crocheted slippers to keep your feet warm, a pretty lap quilt, a wall hanging full of flowers that will never die. I have things here that I did make for you, unaware that I would finish them too late to send them. I don't know what to do with them now. The other day I was at the store and saw an outfit in your favorite color and thought, "Mom would love that" before I remembered you aren't here to wear the clothes I buy for you any more.
It's not denial, exactly, it's more like I keep forgetting that you are beyond me, in a place I don't know or understand. You will always be my mom, just as I'll be your daughter, but there is no more us here. There's just me.
Today I will be happy. It's the day you were born, and the grapefruits are growing, and my life has settled down again into comfortable rhythms of work and play, focus and dreams, sadness and joy. I am your daughter still, here and well. If you can, be happy with me.
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