I almost called you today

Does grief ever end?

Mom, Janis and me celebrating Mother’s Day around 2010

The continuation of grief often takes me by surprise. I can’t count the number of times I’ve actually picked up my phone to call my mother. But she died thirteen days after my stem cell transplant. I couldn’t be with her because I was still in the hospital.

Yesterday these words practically wrote themselves:

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I almost called you today,

when my grandson rolled over.

I almost called you yesterday,

while using one of your crystal glasses.

I almost called you a week ago,

when my daffodils began to bloom.

I almost called you last month,

because I was still sick.

I almost called you six months ago,

when I caught pneumonia.

I almost called you last year,

to get your mac and cheese recipe.

I almost called you two years ago,

so we could celebrate my first re-birthday.

I did call you the year before that,

to cheer you up,

and let you know I wasn’t scared.

But you were,

you knew your end was near.

I called you again,

while you were busy saying goodbye.

The family gathered around your bed

as you began to leave this world.

But I couldn’t be there.

So, I watched you on FaceTime.

Your eyes were closed.

Your skin was smooth.

Your mouth was slack.

You were beautiful.

I read the 23rd Psalm to you

in a shaky voice.

You took one last breath,

*

then you were gone.

When I almost called you today,

tears erupted as I remembered the truth.

I couldn’t call again.

But I’ll still keep your number in my phone.

The last text message I got from her was on my stem cell transplant day.