She would be 51 today.
This time a year ago, we were celebrating the miracle of her 50th birthday. And I knew then that time was slipping through our fingers. I knew then that it was a matter of mere months. I knew then that today would not hold candles and cake and well wishes, at least not by her side.
Call it faithless. Call it hopeless. Call it weakness.
That is what it felt like then.
But today, 365 days later, it feels like a sort of acceptance, a strength that I both resent and depend on every day. And I’ve come to recognize it as being human. To accept the inevitable and make the most of what you have in the moment is the only real way to live. She taught me that, by the way she lived and by the way she died. That is something worth celebrating. And worth crying over, which will probably happen at some point today whether I want it to or not.
Happy Birthday, Mommy. I love you so.