10/07/2026
They say time heals all wounds.
It’s a lie.
Today marks seven years since my Mom died. Seven years without hearing her call me “Sis.” Seven years without her laughter on the other end of our daily calls. Seven years without that unconditional love she so freely gave.
And that wound — that gaping, deep, raw wound — is not healed.
Oh, sure, there are moments I sometimes forget it’s there as I go about my daily existence, caring for my dogs, going through the motions, trying to find my joy again.
Yet it proves elusive.
Scar tissue attempts to form, to staunch the agony of such a deep cut, to make it less fresh in my mind. But then something happens to tear it asunder and in an instant, it’s bleeding all over again.
Losing Buddy ripped it wide open and the grief of losing him, coupled with this anniversary, is almost unbearable.
Oh, to have one more phone call with Mom. I’d tell her how much she means to me. I’d share how I admired her strength and fortitude, raising two kids alone in the 1960s. I’d ask her if she wants to go play Pokémon one more time and listen to her lament “I ain’t got no more balls!” as we’d drive around capturing imaginary creatures, giggling all the while.
And then I’d tell her, “You have always been my hero, my guiding force when I’m lost, the whispered encouragement in my ear when I’m discouraged. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be my mom. I love you.”
❤️
