Tomorrow I leave for Arizona, my very first in-law holiday, and it will be great.
It really will, mom. I'm excited.
But there will not be time to remember. There will not be time to think about two Thanksgivings ago, that last time you really were able to get out of bed and into your wheelchair, when we took those family pictures.
You started crying, mom, when you took a picture with me. Because you were going to miss me. And that's why I love that picture so much. I hate the cancer in your eyes, but I love that picture.
So I'm taking this moment now, mom, this crying moment at 2:28am to think about midnight watches. To think about those times we would sit in the rocker, look at the Christmas lights through the window, and make sure you were sleeping okay.
We were blessed with 19 whole years of shared existence on this earth.
19 whole years, mom.
That's almost 7,000 days.
That's 9 million minutes.
That's 600 million seconds.
That's a long time, mom, and I never appreciated those seconds more than during those midnight watches, in the blue rocking chair, with the Christmas lights soft through the window.
Every breath, every snore was one more second granted to our shared existence.
Do you remember how you asked us to put up those lights outside of the window, to give you a little cheer? I liked those lights.
And do you remember all those cards? We strung them up in rows in your room. We never got around to reading those to you, but that's not the point.
Remember how you would laugh because red dye supposedly causes cancer, and since it was far too late to worry about that, would somebody please pass the hot tamales? That was funny.
Since I won't have time on Thanksgiving, I'm taking this moment at 2:40am to cry. I'm taking this moment to think about you, and write about you, and erase it all, and not worry about My Public Blogging Image, and to thank you, mom, for those 19 years of shared existence.
Kiss my future children for me. Kiss those chicklets right on the face. Maybe then they'll be able to remember their grandma when it's their turn to come to Earth. I hope they'll remember who you are.
I remember.
Happy Thanksgiving, mommy. I love you.
