Beautiful Margaret, my beautiful mother, how could it be that you are no longer here? Five months gone. I still can’t fathom it. The impact of your death remains profound. The pain of acknowledging this day, enormous. A motherless Mother’s Day—a first for me—a first not meant to be celebrated. I am unable still to visit your grave. Someday, perhaps. Not now. Instead, I will pay homage to you here—tell you—tell the world— that not a day goes by when I don’t miss you desperately—your smile, your laugh, the sound of your voice, your wisdom, your songs, your self-deprecating sense of humor—your fashion, decorating, and cooking tips and tricks—everything that made you a true original. No one like you mom. No one. I absolutely detest the fact that since your death I have had to learn to speak of you in the past tense—detest it. But that’s life I guess. I suppose at some point I will learn. In the meantime, I wonder everyday if the cloud you’re sitting on affords you a view of me; whether you watched as I pulled the above picture out of my archives; whether you smiled as much as I did at the appropriateness of the shot, given this day; whether you noticed that just over your shoulder, the little girl looking out the window adoringly at you from the back seat of the car, is me. That about sums up the way I have felt about you my entire life. I adored you then. I adore you still. Thank you for sacrificing so much in your own life to ensure that mine would be so blessed—and how couldn’t it be? I had you.
