Three years ago at this time, I was three days away from being a motherless daughter.
I know everyone will remind me she will always be my mom and I'll never be motherless because she is always with me, and I don't disagree. But the fact is, there are some things you just miss when a person's body and physical presence are no longer with us.
I miss your hugs. The way you'd hold on extra tight for just a little bit longer after I moved to Florida and we didn't see each other every day, or when something happened that made you painfully aware how lucky you were to be in that moment, hugging your healthy, happy child, knowing that others were not so lucky.
I miss the way your winter coat and scarf held onto the scent of your makeup mixed with your perfume.
I miss the way your blue eyes would light up when I'd tell you stories about my life, my friends, or my job. I miss the way I could hear the pride and excitement in your voice over the phone when I'd tell you about a new adventure I was about to embark on or a new area I'd be moving to at work. You were always so convinced of my ability to improve things and make an impact, no matter where I went. Even when I wasn't even convinced myself.
I miss the way you'd close your eyes and stick out your tongue when Neal and I would team up and playfully make fun of you for some of the ridiculous things you said and did. Still, you could never keep the smirk off your face, because there was nothing you loved more than seeing Neal and me together, laughing and enjoying being brother and sister.
I miss the way you'd march in place or kick your legs up in the air while we were watching TV because you could never just sit still. You never wanted to stop moving that body of yours, and that's probably why it remained so healthy until you got dealt a crappy hand of cards and some bad luck.
I miss the way you looked on a water ski. Gliding gracefully across the water with that peaceful look on your face, taking in your surroundings and probably thanking God for another day. You may not have spent much time in church or participating in organized religion, but I never once doubted your belief in God or your trust in knowing that whatever happened to you was part of a bigger plan. Your openness about that and your fearlessness helped me know that you weren't scared for your own fate when you were staring death in the face. You were scared for us, but never for yourself. Neal once looked at me and said "I don't care if she doesn't remember my name or who I am, I just don't want her to be scared." And I don't believe you ever were, and I'm so very thankful for that.
I miss the feeling of my hand in yours. We spent a lot of time holding hands when you were sick. I remember gripping yours so tightly when the neurologist came in to deliver what would be devastating news that day in August. I remember holding it when we'd walk, and when I'd lay with you. But especially during those last few days. I remember studying them because I wanted to remember everything about you. You always hated your stubby fingers, but those hands guided me and Neal through childhood and then right into adulthood, which we were thrown into head-first when you got sick.
I miss the sing-songy way you'd call me by my nickname you had for me, Noella Bella. So much emphasis on the Ls; nobody's said it with the same tone as you, but it still makes my heart happy when other people keep that nickname alive, because it pays homage to you.
I miss the way you'd tickle my back and my arm for hours, and it'd always put you to sleep until I'd flail around purposely to jog you awake. I can't even imagine the hours you put in to back tickling and playing with my hair, but it had to be at least a quarter of my life up until I moved to Florida.
I miss the way you'd turn to me, randomly, and say "I love you so much, my girl." I swear, it was as if you always knew your time would be cut short and you wanted to make sure I never doubted your love for me.
Most of all, I miss being your daughter. I miss belonging to you and knowing no matter what kind of day I was having, I could call you and you'd remind me how much you love me; how far I'd come, how proud you were of the woman I'd become, and what I had to offer this world.
I love you, to the moon and back.
