Today is Ma’s 110th birthday. She died six months shy of her 85th birthday on a shivery February day in the wee hours of the morning. It was bleak. And not just the weather.
Most people would say that she lived a long life. But not me. It was way too soon. Not a tragedy, I know. That term is reserved for the premature deaths of the unfortunate. But I needed Ma to stay longer. Back then. And now. I still need her to be here. For so many reasons.
I still grieve. Always will, I guess. Some days it hits me hard. Like a faceplant into concrete. So intense I’m gasping for air. Like it did in the moments, hours, days and weeks after her death. I cry like her little baby girl on those days.
Most days Ma is a sweet, beautiful thought that permeates from my soul and travels through my body in waves of joy. A butterfly. A hummingbird. A ladybug. All the wondrous small creatures that fly into my life with a message. “Hello, I’m here,” they whisper.
These gentle and quiet, unassuming and unpretentious visitors are daily reminders of her. They are diminutive and endearing. Like her. Gracious and natural. Like her. Lovely and modest. Like her. Humble and kind. Like her. I am grateful for their presence in my life.
On her birthday my sadness refuses to be contained. My grief is all-consuming. I don’t wallow. But I do allow. I let the tears flow.
Grief is so erratic and mercurial. Showing up when you least expect it. For example, I can walk past a photo of Ma every day and I’m fine. No reaction. Other than to register that it’s such a lovely photo of her. Then one day clear out of the blue, and for no apparent reason, I see the same photo in the same place and I’m a puddle of emotion. A mess. A mish-mash tangle of teardrops. Every emotion is spent. I’m done.
Ma always said she wanted to live to be one hundred. In this realm she didn’t make it. But in another reality, the one that dwells deep in my heart, she will live until I am no longer, and today she is one hundred and ten.
Happy Birthday Ma. I will always love you. xoxo
