Gone

“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.