In 2004, my mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer and lost her fight in 2008. She died, and while we’re coming up on the 13th year of my life altering event, I find myself not only becoming her, but really take in her memory as one of the strongest women in my life.
In the last month of her life, she turned 46 and she quit smoking her newports. Her sister passed the month before and there was this look in her eyes, a reflective, frightened look for what would be beyond. She’d be 59 this month.
Transitioning into full adulthood, I find myself, longing for my mother and her words of advice and her thoughts. Couldn’t promise it would be good advice but still. Since for the most part, I am alone (cause, y’know covid) - I reflect on what could have been, and the future. Sometimes, I have to dig through files of mental images to find what her voice sounded like, and I don’t want to ever forget her. Memories of her still exist. Her taking me to school late because I wanted Dunkin Donuts, so I could let everyone know my mother had money. Her pulling up on the girl that was bullying me and cussing her and her mother out. Her surprising my Kindergarten class for my birthday. Her bringing cookies to my second grade class during Christmas time. I realize this is because she never knew when cause she never knew when she was going to go, so she made the most of her time.
I write this not to share a sob story, or my to share my weird growing pains, but to really bask in her memory, comment on mental, and emotional growth, but to also remind myself that she’s always a part of me. I look like her, I talk like her, I move like her, I’m even shaped like her. Damn, I have weirdly strong legs. I’m just glad I don’t smoke cigarettes. I was destined to become some weird version of my mother. I live her legacy and have parts of her literally running through my veins.
She’s always with me and I’m never truly alone.