It's Due Time

It has been close to two full months since my last blog post. I've fallen off the daily photo posts completely, and I'm not sure I'm prepared to start again. My life has been hectic, to say the least. This week has been consumed with routine, taking two weeks out of our daily grind to visit Michigan and be constantly on the go, it wiped us out. I'm happy to report the kids seem to be back to normal, bedtime has been pushed back 30 minutes, but then again, it's summer, and I'm feeling generous.

I've put off blogging for so long, I'm nervous and unsure where to begin. The topic list I've made keeps growing, and my ambition to write is dwindling away minute by minute. I've always believed that some things are better left unsaid. Unless you're me. Then you open your heart and soul to the world wide web and hope your readers never bring up the skeletons that came pouring out of your closet when you open up your soul.

December 4, 1997 was the day my mom died. Since that day, I can count on less than 10 fingers the number of times I've been to the cemetery to visit her grave. Each time I go, I feel a little more distant, and a lot more guilty. The disconnect has been prevalent since my first visit, she's not there for me, that's not her buried under the grass, she's somewhere else: so when the sobs took over my body during my last visit, and I couldn't catch my breath, I was just as surprised as the next person.

The choice to visit was mine, even if it was on a whim. I knew if I didn't commit, right then and there, another handful of years would slip through my grasp, and the chance to prove to myself I was strong enough to return would be lost again. I'm still not sure how it happened, but before I realized what I had said, the words flew out of my mouth just as quickly as the trees passed by the car window. As we pulled up, I was calm, collected, confident even. I had a stern talk with myself, I was prepared for the weeds, the overgrowth of grass, the informal feel and the caution I would take as I walked past the graves of others. I took my time, slowed my breathing, tiptoed through the sun's rays and found my mom. No sooner did I sit down did my stomach hit the back of my throat. I was instantly choked up, sobbing uncontrollably, completely broken.

The minutes felt like hours as I brushed the sand off the gravestone. I did my best to remove the weeds, I know my mom wouldn't have liked to see it messy. The thoughts in my head were so entangled, I needed to slow down and remember: for me, and for her. I felt panicky, rushed, and nervous as I tried to recall every last detail I could, from the color of her hair to the way her skin felt when I held her hand during those final days. I felt so trivial, sitting there crying over something I had long since let go of. The pain in my heart was real, it still is; some days the hurt is so great it cripples me. Those are the days I remind myself she's with me. My mom isn't just a name on a grave stone, she's the smell of warm chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven, she's the green of my daughter's eyes, and my inspiration to be everything to my kids that she didn't live long enough to be for me.

As I sat in the passenger's seat of the car, relief took place of my tears. I persevered, and I know that makes her proud.