I’ve had a hard morning. I feel like I’ve been stretching piece after piece of brightly colored tissue paper over this hole that was left in my heart when Mom died…mom…died, and this morning I slipped–just a little thought that darted off down the wrong memory–and that slip pierced through all the paper and laid me bare again. It’s been one of those morning that the harder I take in big gulps of air, the more I seem to be suffocating. And do you know what it is that is hurting me so bad? Just missing that one person who sincerely loved all my boring parts.

Who but your Mom calls to find out if Mary Aplin was liking applesauce again today, or if Pace went down for her nap and gave me some free time, or if I was still sore from my exercise class? Who cares about crap like that besides her? Who talks to you one day and can tell–just by the stress in your voice–how tough things are, and then shows up on your doorstep the next day saying, “I just needed to see Dapples smile, get a kiss from Pace, and take you to lunch.” Who else is willing to come for a visit just to walk through your daily routine together and maybe help you clean out your closet? Nobody but your Mom truly loves all your boring parts, and I want mine back.

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