This morning I woke up in beautiful Key Biscayne at the Mom 2.0 summit, the slow ceiling fan gently tempering the rays of the morning sun streaming through the window. Not 5 minutes later, a calendar alert came up on computer. Then my iPad. Then my phone, twice.
My mood changed.
It’s hard to imagine that just a few years ago, I might have been calling her to hear her voice, wish her a happy day, put Thalia on the phone to chirp out a toddler’s hello, then insist that she eat more cake because dammit, after 80 if you can’t eat more cake on demand, what’s the point?
And then I realized that just four years ago, we were right here in this very state, hardly an hour away, celebrating the beauty of a life lived 90 years where she pointed out all her friends in wheelchairs and walkers, all those hobbling around from chair to chair, and how each one was a good decade younger than my sprightly grandmother who still lived alone, walked the stairs, and had the mischievous energy to toss every bit of the George Bush campaign brochures with me that was dumped in her building lobby before the ’04 election. We of course reminded everyone of this at the party.
The Democrats laughed, at least.
It was a hell of a party. A great way to go out.
Then, just two years after that, we said goodbye.
Am I the only one who can’t bring myself to delete the birthday alerts of those who’ve left me? Deleting a contact is something you do for ex-bosses and ex-boyfriends. It’s not something you do for the people you loved most in the world. But then, I can’t toss my first pregnancy stick either.
The alert, the notification–it’s like being able to keep her with me one more year.
Momsie, I wish you a happy birthday today. Because it still is. I hope that wherever you are, if ever you are, you’re eating that second piece of cake. All of it. Even if someone else licked the fork first. You have to get over the germ thing sometime.