Dear Mom,

It's that time of year again.  That time where everyone is hustling and bustling about.  They're buying their Turkeys and baking their pies; in anticipation for the day where one can pretend calories don't exist and it is socially acceptable to eat gravy by the spoonful.  Every year as this day approaches I feel my funk move in.  It hangs over me like the cold cloudy days that often accompany this time of year.  I try to shake it off, bury it down deep, and try to focus on the things I'm thankful for.  Truth be told I don't do a great job.  I'm cranky, and in general probably not easy to be around, but I like to pretend that I'm hiding it well, until some silly thing reduces me to a puddle of tears.

Today was that day.  I woke up feeling less than chipper, but I decided I was going to make the day good.  I got the kids and myself dressed, and decided we'd head to Target to buy our Holiday outfits that we use for pictures, recitals, and parties. We buy our Holiday outfits with same excitement I remember having when picking out my Easter dress.  I decided that even though we're trying to spend less while Jason builds up his business that this tradition would stay complete with the stop at Starbucks on the way.  I bought the kids breakfast sandwiches and myself a Grade Soy Chai Latte, my first one in 3 weeks, and for those that know me well that is a small feat. We enjoyed our splurge and the Christmas music that came from the radio as we headed to our final destination. (I know your solid rule of no Christmas music until you see Santa in the Macy's Parade, but I like to cheat; it makes me feel rebellious.)

We arrived at Target happy and ready to shop, but not long after we had picked a pretty red dress for Kennedy and a cute flannel shirt for Jake things began to deteriorate.  The kids couldn't stop bothering each other while I browsed for a cheap shirt for myself and Jason, and soon their fighting was becoming disruptive.  I told them to knock it off, and if they didn't we were leaving.  The fighting escalated, and I headed for the register.  Their screams that had once been directed at each other were then spewed in my direction.  As I stood in line calmly listening to their rants I felt disappointed in their behavior, and that this little holiday adventure had been spoiled by poor attitudes.

We arrived home, the kids settled down, and moved on to other activities.  I tried to move on too, but the events of the morning loomed over me and ate me.  I went about my business folding and sorting laundry.  My mood not improving and the disappointment not softening, and as I bent down to pick up a load of laundry I bonked my forehead on the corner of the bed frame.  It hurt, but not bad, but that didn't stop the tears from coming.  I plopped down in the pile of dirty black laundry and sobbed.  As I cried I realized it wasn't the bonk on the head or even just the events of the morning it was everything.   This morning I was trying to desperately feel that holiday cheer that I felt for so many years around Thanksgiving, but what I realized among the dirty socks and shirts was that no matter how hard I try to create a magical feeling I will never feel the same way I did before you died.  The thing that is missing isn't lattes and sparkly dresses.  It isn't Turkeys, potatoes, or pies, and isn't Christmas music. It's you.

The one time of year where we're supposed to focus on all we're thankful for I focus on the one thing I'm not.  I'm not thankful you had cancer and died.  I'm not thankful you're not here. I know it's probably taboo to say this, because I'm blessed beyond measure, but it doesn't change the fact that I hold a sadness in my heart.  It doesn't change the fact that I ache to know what Thanksgiving would have been like at your house with grandkids running around. I can only imagine the fun the kids would have had making Thanksgiving dinner with you.  I hate that I can't feel the same joy I felt for this day before you passed, but I suppose I've learned to live with the new normal.  I've learned to eat my turkey and gravy with a certain sadness in my heart.

Your death changed me in ways I can't explain.  In a lot of ways it made me a better person. I'm more compassionate, empathetic, and it made me want to love more and judge less, but it also left a hole in my heart that I can't get to completely heal. Because of this I vow from this year on, 12 Thanksgiving later, I will no longer pretend until I'm reduced to tears in a pile of dirty laundry that I have holiday cheer and that I don't miss you terribly.  I will just own the sadness instead of trying to hide it by forced holiday cheer. I will allow myself to just miss you. I will still eat turkey and count my blessings, but along with that I will remember Thanksgiving pasts and the memories they hold. I will miss you forever, and that's okay.