Parts Of Me

Today would have been my mom's 57th birthday. She passed away when I was 3 months old. For so long, I seemed to only acknowledge the day she died. Maybe this was my inability to deal ...I don't know. But somewhere along the way, I decided if I was ever going to mark a day for her, it should be her birthday. I should celebrate her life, not cling to her death. For so long, I put up that wall, pretending like it didn't really effect me all that much that she was gone - I told myself I was too young to know any different. However, around the same time I decided to celebrate her life, I think I finally opened my heart to accept the reality. That it was OK to be sad. To hate that I'll never hear her tell me how hard labor was, or what weird food she craved when she was pregnant with me.

I long to know how I'm like her, what do I just like she did? For so long I wondered this in my own little silent torture... until I finally got the courage to start talking to my family about it. Don't get the wrong idea, it's never been something we weren't ''allowed'' to talk about - I just buried it so deep, I could not bring myself to ask. My Dad, little by little told me some great stories. Some funny, some sad, some with some valuable lessons. Her brothers and sisters were SO excited to tell us anything we wanted to know. We've been flooded with pictures, stories, tears and fond memories. I may not have my own memory of her in my mind, but I feel like she is alive in the memories that we all have in our own way, and I have comfort knowing that part of her will always be in my heart.