Today is somewhat of an important day for me. For on this day 17 years ago, I lost my mother to a long battle with cancer. At the time, I was only 17 years old. Not a child, but not yet a woman. I have now lived half of my life without her and oh how I have needed her. We got along fairly well, as well as most teenage daughters do with their mothers and I so longed for the day when my mother would become my friend. I know we would have been great friends, for we are so much alike. I can see in myself that same stubborn, outspoken, independent streak that she had. She loved life, she loved her family and friends, and she loved her church. She instilled in me her love of music, books, and movies. She played the piano and loved to sing, but she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. I suppose that's why she always wanted to show off my singing abilities. She could fry a chicken and bake a pie like nobody I've ever seen. I only wish I had one-tenth of her cooking talents. They say time heals all wounds, and in some ways it's true. The pain of grief is not as intense as it used to be and I can reflect on her without collapsing in a crying heap. But there are days when I wish she could have see my children, held them, and played with them. I wish she could have really known my husband, been there when we were married, or held my hand during those early days of marriage when I didn't know how to be a wife. Those things were not to be and I think maybe I'm a stronger person having gone through them alone.
Mother, I miss you. I love you!
