And every time I hear Kenny Chesney's "Who Would You Be Today" I think of you. My heart aches a little more. It seems silly sometimes that that would be the song that makes me miss you - a song about youth cut down in it's prime; of someone who never had a chance to make a family or decide what shape their journey would take. I know who you would be today. We all do.
Staring at all five of your grandbabies in front of Cinderella's Castle this past October in Disney World, we all said "She would love this." And we knew it with total certainty. Every time I visit Daddy's new house and see the six carpets arranged in a mosaic through his dining room, I laugh and tell him "She would hate this." And he looks at me, knowing full well you would and full well that he is not changing it. We knew you. You had for decades been who you were going to be. When everything else was changing, what could be counted on was you and Daddy. Steadfast in who you were and what you represented.
So every time I hear Kenny's exaggerated country twang start in - "Like a story that had just begun - But death tore all the pages away" - I don't wonder who you would be. I wonder who we would all be with you here. How would your continued influence in our lives have changed who we are three years later?
I think back to those early days of motherhood, when it seemed I could do nothing right. When I cried that I was failing B in every way and fretted about every aspect of her life that I could and couldn't control. When I felt like I was spinning out of control just like the world around me. And I laid in your bed, just like when I was little, and sobbed the big, exhausted sobs of a new mom whose baby doesn't sleep and husband travels and just feels completely overwhelmed and not worthy enough for motherhood. And you pushed my hair out of my face, looked me in the eyes, and said "Watch her when you enter a room. Watch her face light up, her smile, and how she reaches for you. You are enough. You are what she needs."
And for me, in that moment, as my mother, you were enough. You were enough to give me confidence and strength and embrace that motherhood is messy and heart breaking and constantly evolving, but that I can do it. You made me a better mom. So, I wonder three years later, how you would have continued to influence that. How you would have helped me navigate the challenges of adding to our family and that come along with babies becoming children.
And, oh, the girls. That seems the most unfair to me. Only 18 months with B. Only one birthday and one Christmas. Like a story that had just begun - But death tore all the pages away. And Baby K - to think she will never know what it feels like to have you hold her, or sing her to sleep, or make her feel like she is the most special thing in the world. Three years later, and that is still unimaginable to me. Three years later, and I grieve most that my babies won't know you. Of course they will know your pictures and your stories, hear your laugh on old videos, but they won't know you. Not in the way a grandbaby should know their grandmom. Not in the way their cousins will through shared memories of countless hours spent together.
And so the song comes on and I daydream about what it would be like three years later, if you were still here. The visits to Georgia, the long summers spent in Virginia. The love that just radiated out of you and poured onto your grandbabies. They were your heart. Your life. How you would have retired and hopped back and forth between my house and Molly's, so willing to travel but still email RB with job openings in Newport News and reminding us all that Christmas would of course be at your house.
And I think back to a little over three years ago, running into that hospital room after our long drive from Georgia, everyone else already gathered there, and your eyes flickered when you saw me. You knew I was there, and acknowledged it as best you could. But the next morning, when I brought in B... and you tried to reach for her. Though you were exhausted and your body ransacked by the first stroke, you tried to sit up and hold your youngest grandbaby. You longed for her. You fought for her. I often think that is why you fought so hard. Why you held on for 11 days through more strokes and worsening odds and challenge after challenge. You were fighting to spend more time with those four little ones that you cherished.
And with a love like that, how could I not wonder who all of us would be now with three more years of your love and support and companionship? So three years later, and everything has changed. There are new babies and relationships and houses and jobs that you will never see. There are new outrageous stories to the family lore that you will never know. And three years later, nothing has changed. I miss you. Your absence is felt in every milestone and quiet moment and picture taken. And I wonder who we would all be today if not for this December night three years ago.
Sunny days seem to hurt the most.
I wear the pain like a heavy coat.
The only thing that gives me hope,
Is I know I'll see you again some day.
Some day. Some day. Some day.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. - Matthew 5:4
My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life. - Psalm 119:5
