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I always call my mom on my sister’s birthday. She would’ve been 32 this August.
As the years have passed, it has not been the anniversary of her death (eleven days before her 7th birthday), but the anniversary of my sister’s birth that has given my mom the most trouble.
I never truly comprehended the sharpness of her sadness until I had my own children.
Now, with a clarity that came in the instant I first laid eyes on my children, I call to make sure Mom is doing okay. See if she needs an empathetic shoulder to lean on, this day she thought she would forever be celebrating the third wonderful addition to her family.
In this chapter of my life as a mother, when I try for a moment to turn the page and imagine walking in the footsteps of my mom’s journey, I can not do it. A wave of aching loss and horror forces me to retreat before I can even lift a toe to slip into her perennial shoes of grief and sorrow.
It causes...
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