Category: Stella

stories of estrangement and our lost daughter, my best friend who has wandered away

Dreaming

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

Yesterday my daughter came home, with her daughter, but only in my dream.  A nap I took and couldn’t shake all day, a visit I never wanted to end.  During my sleep, I returned home and they were here, playing with a feather duster.  Stella moved about the house, I was cautious in approaching her, as if she might disappear again.  I couldn’t hold back with my little Princess though, we cuddle and talked, she giggled.  The glorious sound of a toddler giggle filled my slumber, my heart.  She spoke to me in big girl talk, confusing me with her sentences.  I woke before they left, they were gone already.

I didn’t touch my daughter, had I grabbed her I wouldn’t have let go.  What am I to make of such a vivid dream? A mother’s aching heart on overdrive? A promise from God that one day soon, soon? I only know that I had a visit with my daughter and granddaughter yesterday and my soul is raw.  My house is quiet, the feather duster sits unused.  I feel drowsy, groggy, waiting to fully wake and fearing I will.

I wonder now if it wasn’t satan himself, luring me back to bed, away from my light.  Holding out treasures, leading me under the covers, “there, there, rest now.” I don’t want to go to church today, the music may make me cry, the people might hug me, someone may smile at me.  It occurs to me the more I don’t want to go, the faster I need to shower, to get in the car.  I have to wake up.  There is hope in the waking.  Sleep holds emptiness.  She visited me, whether my overactive mind, God or Satan sending her.  That was yesterday.  Today is new, I am going to church.  I know for sure God will meet me there.

 

Goodbye She-Me

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Hovering, watching, separate, I floated above as my father touched the body of she-me.  I didn’t feel it.  I didn’t understand then that if God couldn’t stop him, He gave me safety in my mind to fly away.  That gift of dissociating served me well throughout the years of abuse but became a habit when dealing with anything disturbing.  She-me felt all the pain, I floated and witnessed.

In graduate school a med resident needed practice using hypnosis technics, I guess I must have volunteered.  He was amazed at how quickly I went under.  I was not.  I had been leaving my body all of my life.  Coming back to it is the hard part.

I no longer float away but I still don’t know how to stay fully present, how to feel like I imagine others do. I stay apart, participating on the surface, feeling later.   Great in a crisis, my feelings don’t interfere until much later.  But daily I have begun to ask myself what is holding me back from responding in the moment.  Not only protected from harm, I am cheated of deep joy, shared joy, only allowing  feelings to surface when alone. What does it take to unlearn even more, to trust that the danger is gone?  I know the answer lies in God, the One who gave me the gift initially, Who now wants it back.

I wonder if I can’t use some of the other gifts He has shared with me, gifts of a husband and friends, gifts of the Spirit. I don’t have to protect she-me anymore.  I am an adult with choices of what to let in, who to let in, accepting grace and love and hope.  Remembering to stay low and not float away, low where real life happens. Where kids get dirty, knees get skinned, wet dogs want to cuddle, cats bring dead moles, a daughter stops calling, a son starts drinking, but also where a sweet voice calls for nanny, a husband keeps reaching out, friends see deeper.

God is asking for His gift back, I can see that now.  The courage to trust the One who loved me first will open me up to all those who love me now.  I need His help in letting go of this old habit, I do know He was only waiting for me to ask.  Today I am asking.  Goodbye She-me.

 

Meet Me in the Better

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

It has been a hard weekend, my Plum spent more days than usual with his mama, removing our buffer. The joy and lightness he brings also means there is little time for deep talk or uninterrupted arguments.  Important words go unsaid, feelings never expressed.  He wasn’t here, words were spoken, feelings were hurt, a marriage teetered.

I came into this marriage emotionally strong but poor, two children already dividing up my time and love. Always trying to atone for the time I was away, I gave more to them than him, expecting him to understand. He did and didn’t. Waiting for his turn, for my time and attention, has taken a toll. My habit of putting him last hard to break.

As the children grew older, Arrow’s addictions and my dismissals from employment from strangers complaints regarding my history created crises under which my Chef and I could unite.  With each new onslaught, we got better at leaning on each other, communicating, focusing on the goal together.  My neediness was evident.

With an addict son, an unexpected pregnancy, taking in the mama, raising the child until she was able, custody battles, Arrow’s imprisonment, and now the estrangement from our daughter after she married, the crisis meter was always ticking.  But what happens when I opt out?  When I stop seeing everything as a mess that needs my fixing and just start moving forward?  My marriage becomes the next crisis.

I want to change the pattern, to help my Chef see that I need him without being needy.  I want him to become aware of how we communicate when the goal is not finding a rehab but just celebrating the day. We need to find a new way, that doesn’t involve just hurts and sorrow.  Old habits are pushing us, I am pushing back.  He has waited a long time for my time and attention, can no longer see that he has it.  He thinks he still needs to fight for it, can’t figure out who to fight. I am here, waiting for him now.

Almost 16 years ago, I married this man.  I came into it poor with two children.  I still am poor, I have a grandson now.  The vows I took on that day have not been broken, for better or for worse, I am here.  Waiting for him to meet me in the better.

Bridges and Magpies

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

Touring the stalls of the Round the Fountain Art Fair, I was transported to times I had made the laps with my daughter.  Silver jewelry, funky collages, exquisite paintings captured our interest.  As an artist herself, Stella took in more than me.  I watched her more, swelling with pride as she spoke with the artisans.  I saw my little girl, growing into a woman.  One stall in particular captured her interest: the picture of a magpie, key in its beak surrounded by stolen items.  It reminded her of her time in South Korea, a purchase she had to make.

Yesterday I walked back into time, back into the stall of this same artist.  I purchased my own bit from her, a block of wood painted with funky designs describing a love of travel.  I felt connected to my far away daughter.  As I was paying, I mentioned the magpie purchase many years ago.  She remembered my daughter, remembered their talk.  She asked where she was, how she was.  I pretended I knew.  Like the magpie, I only have stolen bits of information, bits I keep closely guarded lest my treasures disappear.

My grandson accompanied my friend and I on this outing, was really too tired to go yet it was too early for a nap.  He quickly became bored although he enjoyed asking the first 5 or so artists if they had made the creations in their stall and then issuing a compliment.  “I really like what you made.”  “I really like your stuff.” Soon discovering dogs to pet, ledges to climb, he found freedom from touring boring things he wasn’t allowed to touch.  We moved too slowly for him, he pulled us faster than we wanted.

My friend, K, who met us there is one of the last my daughter has allowed contact with.  K is my closest friend from college days.  A friend who heard all my old secrets, knew my mom, sees my soul.  My daughter knows K well, Stella knows she is a safe person to allow a little flow of information with.  Stella meets her on the bridge of Facebook sometimes. I didn’t realize K had taken a picture of my Plum until it was done, didn’t know her intention.  Later she sent it to Stella, poking the bear a bit.  I was on the edge the frame.  K also sent me a picture of my granddaughter, her mama on the edges as well.   Her scrunched-up face took me back to images buried in a chest upstairs, images tucked in my mind.  Another little girl I had known so long ago.  I found them, made a collage, sent them to K.  Maybe she sent them on, baby pictures Stella doesn’t have. A history she has cut off.

I sensed the tug of time at the art fair.  A bridge between generations, allowing the next child to explore art and this one to pretend for a moment we can go back.  I searched for sadness all day, came up empty.  I found a sense of peace, a letting go that comes from traveling to a new place and finding something familiar there.  Just enough to keep me grounded, not enough to bury me. I watched my Plum climb on ledges, jump off without fear.  He rolled down the grassy hills, walked barefoot and wanted carried.  He was free among the creations, crossing the bridge between buying art and living it.  I traveled to the art fair and carried home new memories.  The magpie can’t steal these, stored up in my heart.

 

Still Learning from Second Grade

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My 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Martin, gave gifts to each student at the end of the year.  I remember that I was one of the few who received a book, a treasure for me.  I loved school, a wonderful escape from home, a place I could succeed.  I knew what was expected and focused on preforming perfectly, to avoid notice for doing something wrong.  Teachers today have training to spot indicators of an abusive home, back then they gave more hugs.  Mrs. Martin was an elderly teacher, probably retiring soon after I had her, a grandma-like person I spent my days with who nurtured me.  At the end of the year, I was bereft.  My father worked nights, mom worked days.  He would be home with me all day, for months.  I wanted to stay with Mrs. Martin.

She gave me a book titled, “A Smile is To Give.”  She told me I had a beautiful smile, I just needed to share it more.  Maybe she knew, maybe not, that I was a terrified child who couldn’t smile.  Forty-four years have passed since I received that book.  I think about it often.  How would life have been different had she asked why I don’t, rather than encourage me to do so.  Would I have told?

Too many times I have been told to just smile, at jobs, with my husband even.  Smiles are invitations to get closer, to breach the walls.  I don’t smile much, certainly not at strangers or just in passing.  Close trusting relationships are the safe places my smile resides.  I laugh the most with my daughter, or did.  I miss that, I don’t laugh, that completely unself-conscious bubbling laughter that knows no limits. I only do that with her.  I am not a natural smiler.  I see women who are, I watch them closely.  Their smiles reach their eyes, their faces glow. I imagine freedom in their souls, trusting that the world is kind.  I imagine their 2nd grade teachers gave them books about exploring or art. When I do smile, I wonder if it ever reaches my eyes, if anyone has ever seen into my soul.  Ever.

A smile is to give, I learned in 2nd grade.  I have been receiving others’ for a very long time, withholding mine, greedily taking.  Mrs. Martin might be disappointed that the 8 year girl she knew still looked at the world with caution, watching, waiting. But maybe what she really meant is that I was to seek out those with one to share, rather than pushing me to give mine.  Maybe she did know it was too hard for me, but I could find sanctuary among those women whose souls were open enough that even their eyes smiled.   Rather than seeing the deficit in me, she kindly gave me the code for safety after all.  Thanks, Mrs. Martin, for knowing some eyes smile, some seek safe havens.  Maybe I finally figured out the message from 2nd grade, after all these years.

Footprints, Forgiveness, Forever a mom

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

I survived the day, one set aside to honor mothers.  Mine is gone and my children are both choosing to pretend I don’t exist.  I survived the day.  A motherless child, a childless mother.  Unable to spread my pain out with friends who would surely help carry the burden as each are thriving in their motherhood.  Each would be getting cards, hugs, flowers, lunch.  I couldn’t share my agony with my husband who was running a restaurant, sure to work 14 hour days, exhausted and excited with the rush at the same time.  A successful weekend.

I am a failed mother, one who no longer gets to know her children.  My daughter has chosen to cut off contact, believing her truth and ignoring the reality of more truths.  Every attempt to seek forgiveness for her perceived wrongs, accepting all responsibility, becoming so deeply honest, have been judged not enough.  My mailbox is empty, no phone calls, no texts.  On good days I remember that God is handling this.  There are few good days.

My son has battled addiction since he was 15.  After almost 4 years in prison, he just came home to us in September.  We bought new clothes, new bedding, new coats, a new phone and even a car for him to use after we took him to get his license. We stocked the house with food he might like, he wasn’t sure anymore.  Four years of taking his calls which we had to pay for, sending money we didn’t have, pictures of his son to always keep him included, visits which meant time off of work and more money for vending machines and gas and lunch as we traveled.  He turned 21 while inside and thought that even though he is a drug addict he could still drink.  He chose to drive while under the influence.  He chose to hide alcohol in our home.   This young man chose to listen to those who tell him lies instead of his mother who tells him the hard truth.  I had to tell him no.

I was a wonderful mother who sang songs every night after bath and books.  I made real dinners from family recipes.  I took my kids to the park and played with them there, no cell phones to distract.  I made crafts pre-pinterest.  We planted things, dabbled in science.  I taught them that they owned their bodies, they never had to hug or kiss anyone if they didn’t want to.  I needed my babies to be safe from the horrors I knew when I was a child.  I wanted little more than to be a mother to my children.

I was a wonderful mother who made terrible mistakes.  I reverted to childhood coping and didn’t seek the help I needed when confronted with sexual overtones from someone who scared me.  I  allowed the little girl in me to take over instead of the adult with choices.  I was raped.  By a 15 year old emotionally unstable adolescent who was in the group home where I worked.  He had been removed from every school and was deemed too aggressive for other settings.  He was.  But because I didn’t report and tried to manage it on my own, after telling my husband at the time, I eventually was charged with the crime.  He was sent away to a boot camp for boys with criminal tendencies.  I was sent to prison.

I was away from my children for 2 1/2 years, the worst time of my life.  I begged God to let me die in those early days of jail when I couldn’t even have visits.  I sat on the steps one day and just pleaded with Him to let me out of this pain.  My mind was flooded with the story of the Footprints.  I tried to push it away, I got images of the beach and the one set of prints in the sand.  I knew I had my answer.  Whatever happened, I wasn’t alone.

I survived.  I used the time to become the woman I wanted to be, not one defined by childhood abuse. I continued counseling, sought truth, accepted my role in becoming a victim when I had resources.  I also forgave myself.  I allowed for the whole picture: a flawed professional in a broken system, red flags ignored, cries unanswered.  I learned to say no.  Loudly.  Fiercely.  To keep saying no until someone listens.  Or to walk, run, away until I find safety.  Sometimes it is an emotional exercise, other times I have to remember the steps and follow through with a safety plan.  Women who have been sexually abused as children are more likely to be raped as adults, women who have been raped are more likely to be so again.  We just don’t know how to protect ourselves.  We communicate victim to a predator.  I work hard to change that message, some days more successful than others.

I accept that I was a wonderful mother while trying to keep the parts of my life separate, keeping my children safe from a young man who tried to steal them from daycare, threatened my husband.  I did the best that I could.  My children were safe.  I was not.

When I returned home, after years away filled with weekly visits, nightly phone calls, daily letters and handmade gifts, I found my children still wanted their mother.  I had realized while away that I could never love a man who didn’t protect me when I came to him with this trauma, thus the marriage was over.  I was without a home but I had my family.  We started over and we laughed, read books, made food, planted things.

I can see the patterns, I know the genetics of addictions passed through our lineage.  I tried desperately to protect my son from this, I failed.  He chose.  I knew one day my children would be ready for adult talks about our past, one I freely discussed with them at each developmental phase.  I didn’t anticipate not getting to talk, not being able to listen.  I learned to say no to my son, I know how to listen to my daughter, she just won’t talk.  I taught them both the value of forgiveness and grace, they saw the destruction of shame in my life.  They know the hurt of grudges yet both are on their own path. They have to walk through anger, hurt, accountability, acceptance, forgiveness.  Until this happens, my mailbox is empty, my phone stays silent.

I am a wonderful mother.  I pray for my children with most breaths I take, my love is unceasing.  I bake cookies and always have fruit for my grandson.  I say no to him and teach him to own his body.  I make mistakes, I try again.  I have survived this weekend and the intrusive thoughts of driving the car into a pole, drinking myself into oblivion, walking until I just couldn’t.  I survived by   remembering that I am still a mom.  I will always be a mom.  I am a wonderful flawed mom who loves her children and knows that their hearts still include love for me.  One day God will show them how to tell me.  Until then, I have to trust those footprints on the beach.

bedtime stories, lifetime fears

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I play a game each night before I fall asleep, a horrible game.  Rather than end my day in prayer and supplication, I burrow under heavy blankets and imagine that I have cancer, that I have been in a terrible accident, any number of other horrific scenarios have befallen me.  I skip over the actual bad part, the suffering, the hurt, the true pain such an event would cause.  I don’t linger over details.  The rich part of my nightly imagining is when my daughter realizes how precious life is, how much she really loves her mother and she comes back.  I see her at my bedside, holding my hand, saying she loves me.  I see the miraculous recovery, how I squeeze her hand, we have reconnected, joined once again.

I don’t want to get sick, to get hurt.  I actually hurt enough already.  The problem is she can’t see my destroyed heart.  There are no doctors and nurses rushing me anywhere to fix it. Tubes aren’t sticking out of me, I don’t have beeping machines registering where my life stands.  Yet every night I lay just as still, just as lifeless, waiting for her.   I already know that life can be crippled when you carry regrets, words left unspoken.  I watched the destruction in my brother’s life when my father had a heart attack and never left the hospital after a fight they had.  My brother carried that weight for his too short life.  The reassurances we gave that my father loved him, knew my brother loved him back could never erase the regret of a foolish fight left unresolved.  Standing on righteous anger only led to kneeling in a puddle of despair.

I wake each morning and pray this is the day that she too has recovered from a night of fear that our breach could be a forever one and she feels compelled to act.  It has been too long time wandering in this wilderness, too many nights dreaming up a way to reach her.  I wonder what she thinks about as she lays her head on the pillow, her alone time with just her and her true thoughts.  I trust God is working on her heart as well.  Please let her listen before my imaginings become true.

Olive Branches

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I seem to be having the same conversation with different people.  They may come at it from a different world view but we end up at the same place.  We talk about being lured into getting a new phone every two years even if ours is just fine.  We bemoan the work ethic of the 20 somethings, who feel they need to be told daily how great they are doing yet they still leave with no notice.  The ability to say and do things anonymously on the internet brings out the worst in humanity.  Without longterm relationships, without accountability to others, we are losing the ability to manage conflict.  This disturbing trend of disposability has led to fractured relationships.  My newsfeed on Facebook reminds me often that it is my right to remove toxic people from my life.  It is my duty to stand up for me, to live my life free from those who hurt me.   I do agree that abusive relationships are ones that need to be broken, left, fractured.  But what constitutes abuse?

As we have come out of the shadows regarding the estrangement with our daughter, sharing our pain, our heartache and also our utter disbelief, we have found many others who are in the same place.  Too many.  Stories of parents who dared tell the truth to their children, parents who made mistakes, parents who are human.  All share the same result of being cast out of their children’s lives, grandchildren never seen.  Most have tried all forms of communication: mail, email, texts, phone calls.  Apologies, pleas fall on deaf ears.  The children seem to stand on their right to cast us off and select shiny new people who bring bling and no history.  They don’t have to worry about accountability for their role, these new people will only know their side and support how wonderful they are. “ Of course you were right to leave, how could you not with such a horrible mother?”  Until that new friend no longer holds value.  No worries, a new one will be there, packaged enticingly, a fresh start.

What is missing is conflict resolution, the ability to work through the hard stuff to maintain relationships with those who know us deeply.  Valuing our shared histories, getting more than the medal for participating but the pin for years served, means we stick it out when life gets tough.  The rewards are greater but this generation doesn’t know that.  They have cut them selves off before actually achieving anything of worth.  Taking a fierce moral inventory of myself, I can see, though it isn’t just this millennial generation.  I am guilty as well.  I have bought into the idea of removing toxicity without considering what truly is poison and what is just a bad day.

I can’t fix them all but I can start with me.  I am creating a list of those who I need to forgive, those who I have disagreed with and just stopped talking to.  I am called to forgive, I am called to restore.  I accept that I have a right not to be hurt yet I also have a responsibility to practice conflict resolution that doesn’t look like conflict avoidance.  I am reevaluating whether the hurt was great enough to sever the relationship or just take a break.  Then I am going to practice the grace that I have received.  I am extending some olive branches.  I want our shared histories back.  I don’t know if those on the other side do as well, but if I sit in silence I will never know.

Elephants and Unicycles

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Unicycles leaned against every wall of our garage when I was growing up, my little brother an avid rider.  I don’t remember how he started but he hasn’t stopped although his collection has whittled down to just one or two.  He used to have a six footer, one with a huge wheel, so many other kinds i cannot remember.  I do recall holding them so he could run and mount them and take off riding, a delicate skill of balancing and pedaling to stay upright.  I can see us all those summers ago, browned skins, cut off shorts and tank tops, him riding around in our court and me watching.  Years spotting him in parades, holding his bikes and supporting him as he jumped on, yet I never mastered the balancing act myself.  I can’t actually remember trying.  Life was more concrete for me, I needed both feet on the ground to maintain my sense of control.  So much less adventurous then, maybe now as well.  I do wonder how the inability to balance that unicycle, to jump on and trust the hand that was holding it, has followed me into adulthood.

I know I have never mastered the delicate act of balance which requires an acute awareness of your body, an intuitive sense of which way you need to lean to keep centered.  Too far in any direction results in overcorrection.  I imagine my life as if I were riding one of my brother’s unicycles, reeling first this way and then that, back and forth, even forward a bit and then back but rarely achieving that beautiful glide forward, back straight, head high, smiling for the parade goers.

As a surviver of childhood molestation, I learned to ignore my body.  I struggle to describe symptoms to doctors, I’m terrible with that pain scale.  I have allowed my body to be pushed to the point of relapse with a chronic medical condition because I don’t recognize the warning signs, not aware of my own body.  Without that keen sense of self, how can one maintain harmony?

I have also allowed others to push me, pull me until my stability is jeopardized.  It happens easily enough when you grow up as I did, a victim of a harsh culture, unable to impact your world or find safety.  What I struggle to recognize and then remember, keep imprinted in my mind and heart is that I don’t live in that world anymore.  That I can lean to the right bit and let that situation go by, edge to the left by addressing concerns.  The key is that I can get myself back in balance, maybe needing that helping hand to prop me so I don’t completely fall over.

The biggest struggle is not learning to lean though but to use my voice.  To learn to say no in any of the thousands of ways that don’t hurt feelings but allow for me to keep upright.  As an introvert who has been further traumatized by shame and judgement, I am most comfortable alone or in small trusted groups where I don’t have to be always watching, waiting for the next attack.  Even slight disapproval threatens my equilibrium.  Easier to be alone, not disappointing anyone or exhausting myself trying desperately to be good enough to escape criticism. The demands of motherhood knock most women out of whack, losing themselves in the needs of family, home, work, church, pets.  I am at the age in my parenting continuum where I should be sipping mimosas on the porch in the morning. Instead we are raising a grandchild who brings immense joy and constant requests to play.  Work should be almost behind me, yet I spend any mornings not with my grandson in the restaurant.  The days he is with his mama, I am there again.  This lack of alignment is showing in my health, in my attitude, in my marriage.  I have no me so there is nothing left to give.  Like a child on that unicycle with skinned knees and a cracked elbow, I am bleeding.  I want some bandaids, an ice pack and time away from things that pull.  I need to push.  I need to lean this way instead of that.  I need to figure out what my body is saying before I fall completely over and hit my head.  In my mind, I can see me, given the chance to just conquer this with no recriminations, riding freely, smiling, throwing out candy for everyone.

I have never ridden a unicycle.  I don’t see it actually in my long range plans.  I have ridden an elephant, one of the most centered days of my life.  As we dipped down into the river, the elephant lumbering this way and that, we jostled with her.  Her baby came to play, diving under the water, swimming between the group and resurfacing to splash us.  We tattered right and left but stayed steadfast.  When the mahout instructed her to dip her head into the water, we almost went as well, a trick he was playing on us. Had we fallen, the water was there to catch us but the elephants could have trampled us, a more dangerous situation than it appeared.  Yet, the demands on us were minimal.  Just ride.  Just laugh.  Just delight in the creatures around you, the gifts from God. In order to keep my calibration, I need more days like this.  Or more elephants.

Mom still

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We watched her take her last breath, held her hand and played music as she crossed over, 4 years ago today.  Still so fresh in my memory, a memory that seems to be failing more and more.  The constant in my life was gone.  Such a complicated relationship, she was a complicated woman.  Her life was never easy, time has given me the chance to forgive and the distance to see her with more forgiveness and grace.

I think of all that she has missed and would delight in.   She would love my grandson, her great granddaughters.  She would see the similarities in us, would tell stories that I have forgotten.  She would be so proud of my brother in all that he has accomplished, would grow ever closer to my sister-in-law, whom she adored.  My husband, whom she loved to tease, had an easier rapport with her, something I was slightly jealous of sometimes.  She took comfort in our love for each other.  She would have loved to hear about our trips and our dogs would bring her immense pleasure.  To hear that her granddaughter is living on her own in Indianapolis, working, rescuing dogs, Mom would have been secretly envious and oh so proud.  The trip my sister-in-law just took would have reminded her of times the 3 of us went, the laughs we had.  She would love the closeness we still share.

But she has also been spared much pain.  I can’t imagine telling her about Stella, I just can’t.  It would break her heart.  And if Stella cut her off too, which I imagine would have inevitably happened, the pain would have been even greater for me.  Arrow’s relapse would have hurt her deeply, reminding her of her own son that just was too far out of reach.  Another grandson on the fringe would have caused great worry.

I understand that it was her time.  I still just want to show her pictures and tell her what I ate and tell her what my dogs did today.  I want to tell her that I love her and that I am glad she is spared the pain of this world but I sure wish she could share in our joy. I want her to see the videos my niece makes and watch my grandson build legos.  I want to talk recipes again.  After all this time, I still miss my mom.