Today, my Mom would have been 70. The family all gathered at her graveside and did a Facebook Live video so I could be there, too.
God, I miss her so much.
February 19th, 2017
February 18th, 2017
Today, Kara sat me down and made me pose for her camera. Just sitting still, without distractions, under her gaze, broke me. Not being able to run from my grief made it fall out of me.
Maybe someday she’ll share the pictures. I’m sure they’re intense to look at as I crumble and fail to regain composure.
February 17th, 2017
There were days in February where I was a blank. Where my notes read things like “I worked. I can’t remember anything else.”
Since it was grief at losing my Mother that had me so disconnected, I decided to write about my memories of her on those days.
The biggest disagreement we ever had was whether I should marry my ex-wife or not and I don’t think that if Mom had lived to 100 she would have ever forgiven her for the way that ended up falling apart.
I miss her protectiveness. I miss my Mom.
February 16th, 2017
There were days in February where I was a blank. Where my notes read things like “I worked. I can’t remember anything else.”
Since it was grief at losing my Mother that had me so disconnected, I decided to write about my memories of her on those days.
This is from Mom’s first corporate airplane flight in February of 2014 to come see me for her birthday. My brothers were just worried about her, but I knew she’d be just fine. During her and I’s last long, meaningful conversation, she told me how much she appreciated that I saw her as a competent, capable woman and laughed that I was certainly the only one of her sons who would put her on a bus and send her off to a city by herself.
I miss the brave woman who inspired me. I miss my Mom.
February 15th, 2017
I may be an extrovert, but sometimes I still need time to myself doing my things that I don’t share with anyone else. Today was one of those days.
February 14th, 2017
There were days in February where I was a blank. Where my notes read things like “I worked. I can’t remember anything else.”
Since it was grief at losing my Mother that had me so disconnected, I decided to write about my memories of her on those days.
This is from my Senior year of high school in 1996. Any time I didn’t feel like going out to “Halloween” houses after a Friday night football game, my friends (most of whom were in Marching Band with me) would hit my house. None of us were ever destructive, just bringing along loads and loads of toilet paper that we flung into every tree we could get to without disturbing anyone inside the house.
My house was an ideal target.
This night, we had either gotten in late and weren’t asleep yet or they just got a little too loud and we woke up, and my Mom ran outside with an old, broken b-b gun and chased my friends away. One of them admitted that for a moment, they thought she was actually chasing them with a live firearm.
She never stopped being proud of herself for this.
I miss her fearlessness and her humor. I miss my Mom.
February 13th, 2017
There were days in February where I was a blank. Where my notes read things like “I worked. I can’t remember anything else.”
Since it was grief at losing my Mother that had me so disconnected, I decided to write about my memories of her on those days.
This is from when I was 16 and my mother became the first of many people to assume I was gay. Her reasons were comically flimsy and my poor Dad just wanted to sit down and take his boots off in peace, but instead ended up being yanked into a conversation that I could never get her to admit happened.
I miss her unexpected questions. I miss my Mom.
February 12th, 2017
There were days in February where I was a blank. Where my notes read things like “I worked. I can’t remember anything else.”
Since it was grief at losing my Mother that had me so disconnected, I decided to write about my memories of her on those days.
This is from Mom’s trip to Chicago to visit me in June of 2013. We took an architecture boat tour of the city and she loved it. Even if I hadn’t, her enthusiasm would have been infectious.
I miss the person who cheered and occasionally shared in my adventures. I miss my Mom.
Why Do I Fight?
I fight because my mother was a fighter. Because she taught us strength, self-reliance, and that you should use those things to help those less fortunate.
Playground stories about standing up to bullies as a little girl left their mark on me and every day, when I see the bullies of the world try to hurt those who have less, I know that the sensible thing to do is to calmly explain why what they’re doing is wrong but my gut tells me to twist their arm behind their back until they cry or put a fist into their diaphragm so they can’t breathe.
I say all of this as someone who hasn’t thrown a punch since my own, personal bully hit me from behind while I was changing out of my gym shorts in the seventh grade locker room. I am not drawn to violence, but I will push back with every bit of my strength.
When I’m not careful, it can dip into a martyr complex or being a bit of a White Savior, but I do my best to surround myself with people who will tell me when I’m wrong and then I listen to them. At my best, it’s to stand up for those I love. At my worst, it’s to purge my rage at the injustices of the world.
But I fight because I’m my mother’s son. And my mother couldn’t abide a bully.
February 11th, 2017
Sometimes a haircut is more than a haircut.