“I’m never going to see her again. Ever.”
Your words fall into the air between us. Heavy with the weight of their reality.
Slowly, I shake my head. Left to right. Left to right.
I turn and look out the small oval window, as the airplane takes flight.
And we leave her here.
Buried in a casket you helped them lower into the ground.
Gone, forever, from our presence.
The reality hits us both at different times.
I bite my tongue when I start to ask, “Have you called your Mom today?”
Tears well in your eyes when you catch her smile, forever frozen in time, in a picture on your nightstand.
This Christmas will forever be the one where sympathy cards arrived, co-mingled with Christmas cards. . . both hung on the wall, because they were all sent with love.
The Christmas that the heaviness was felt just as much as joy.
The Christmas where I felt guilt for still having a Mom when you no longer have one here on Earth.
“She’s gone,” I say reluctantly as I turn back to look at you. My hand finds yours and you squeeze it three times as always – once for each word. I love you.