It’s been four years since my Mama died.

Four years ago, my mama spoke her last words to me on Mother’s Day.  I called her hospital room to wish her a happy mother’s day, to tell her how much I loved her, to give her the slightest idea of what she meant to me.  Three weeks before, she wanted me to come see her.  When I got there, she was ill, and I made her go to the hospital.  I didn’t know how bad things were going to get.  She had congestive heart failure, then had a stroke, so she couldn’t speak very long.  She did manage to tell me, “I love you.  Thanks for calling.”

Two days later, she was gone.  I was just a couple hours outside of town.  I didn’t make it there fast enough.  I didn’t know how hard it was going to be.  I just didn’t get there fast enough.

Every single day since then, I’ve missed my mama.  She was my rock.  She was a force of nature.

She knew everything about me, was my closest friend, and loved me more than I can convey.

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been four years since she died.  So very much has happened, but it doesn’t feel any easier accepting that she’s really gone.  As a mother, Mother’s Day should be magical for me but, this year, it’s just heartbreaking.  This year, it seems like I’m just marking time.

I’ll do something special with my kids today, tell stories about my mama, try to hold down the fort until John comes home from a long hitch.  It’ll all be bittersweet, though, because I wish she could know my kids.  She got to spend time with JR, but she never got to meet Camilla or River.  I can’t talk to her late at night when neither of us can sleep, I can’t go play bingo with her, I can’t hear her laugh, I can’t hug her, I can’t lay my head in her lap, I can’t be hugged or kissed.  I can’t go back in time and make myself stay at her bedside.  I can’t tell her all the things I hope she knew — how much I miss her, how much she means to me, how much she amazed me, how much I love her.

I tell her these things every day, still, and just hope that she hears it all from wherever she’s resting now.

I love you, Mama.  Always.