Sunday, March 8, 2015

Tough Going

I hadn't snowshoed since my mom died until today. 

My sister in law, Leanne and I went out earlier today for a hike, and it was tough going. I've never worked so hard at snowshoeing. Since I haven't  been out, there were no trails and no base. We tried to walk on snowmobile tracks, but even that didn't help so much.  

We went across the field, and through the  swamp. It was deep. So deep. We made it to the place where I usually enter the woods to go up to the first beaver pond, but the snow was just too deep. Absolutely impassable. We turned back, hiking along our path through the swamp. I wasn't done, though. I NEEDED more time alone, more time in the woods. 

I set off for a short hike through the woods, and down to the lower field. 

Sometimes the hardest things we do are the most important. The hardest things to say, feel or do physically. Sometimes we need to push through to the other side. Today I needed physical exertion and silence. I needed to get back outside, where I haven't been since my mom died. I feel everything when I'm alone. I needed to face this today.  I'm glad I stuck it out, but it was tough going. 

Tuesday, March 3, 2015


Dear Mom, 

Tomorrow Henry turns four. FOUR. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. 

I am really struggling today. Tomorrow is the first "event" I've had to go through without you. I've planned just a small party- but it's still plenty of organizing and baking that I need to do, and to be honest, I'm having a hard time putting my whole heart in to it. 

I am hurting terribly thinking of how much Henry adores you and how his memories of you are soon going to start to fade. He talks about you, and he knows you are dead, but I don't know that he really understands it yet.  He asked me yesterday when we were in the spare bedroom if we were getting it ready for Granny to come and visit.  We actually have many moments like this, and they are sad, but not devastating.  I like that you are still close in his mind.

Well-intentioned people will tell me that "it's okay, you will keep your mom's memory alive through your stories", and yes, of course we will do that, but these words are not comforting to me. 

I want to scream, "IT'S NOT THE SAME". It's not the same, and it never will be. You will never have a living, breathing relationship with Henry ever again, and that hurts me. I know it hurts you, too. I can feel it and I will carry that with me forever. 

Mom, today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life I hold you close to my heart and I will miss you every second of every day.