Didn't You Know....

...that time stood still. That months go by, and you don't notice. And then it hits you, at work, that she won't call you up and ask you to drop by and help with the cleaning, the tree, the food, the cookies....

That you don't have to take off the day before Easter to help.

Acutally, it's sad. That's when it hit me. When the vacation calendar for work went around. That I wouldn't have to take Easter off to help decorate or cook or clean. That's when the tears formed, threatening like lost memories, to unleash the torrents that wished to fall. And it's gotten worse.

"The 'Firsts' are the worst," she said. "The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas without them...".

I got through Thanksgiving okay. But that wasn't her holiday. It was Christmas. And now I'm painfully reminded with every Christmas song, with every tree and ornament I see, that she isn't here. And every day of this week, and probably every day of what's left of this month, I cry silently at my desk at work, mourning for her. This was her season. Which I never really understood, because she adamantly denied ever liking it. "I hate Christmas," she would say. And there I would be, after I was sixteen, saying, "Well, if it's your dream to just leave us money in an evelope, I don't care. GO AHEAD. I don't care, Mom. Just give us the money if it makes you happy." There I would be, even inviting my friends into this hell, to help with everything. I was annoyed with her complaints, year after year. But it does make sense, just like the spice cabinet, in a way that had to do with her childhood. Never having enough, she had to give so much. And that, I think, is the saddest of all. Her older brothers probably won't admit it, and her younger brother and sister didn't know of those times. She was the only one who dared to hint at what life in the household was like at time. And we bared the brunt of it. But that doesn't mean that I don't cry for what I lost. I do.

And even though she didn't teach me to make chocolate mousse, I still know plenty of other reciepies. Other, everyday reciepies. Except the chicken and gravy. I still can't remember that. Not that I won't try, mind you, but the exact proportions will allude me until I figure it out.

I still haven't dared to open the cookbook boxes. That, I think, will still be too painful right now.

I still love her and miss her.