August 12, 1997

Nine years. Nine years ago today.

I sat by your bed and I held your hand. I remember talking to you, though now I don't remember what I said. I remember holding your hand though. I was afraid to let go.

Suddenly, your eyes opened, but I don't think you saw me. A single tear made its way down your left cheek. Why were you crying? What were you looking at? Were you afraid? Were you happy? Did you know I was there?

I wiped the tear from your eye and I held your hand tighter. I told you I loved you. I told you I would be ok. I told you it was ok to let go. I'd be ok . . . we'd all be ok. Finally, your last breath came and you were gone. I still held your hand and told you I loved you.

Nine years later, I still reach for the phone to call you when something good happens or to tell you when I'm worried. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. I still can't believe you're not there. I miss you so much.

I love you, Mom.