I Am From---a poem

I am from sand, beaches, and fruit trees,

Thick, lush St. Augustine grasses and tall dark clouds,

The smell of rain and the flash of frequent lightning,

Muggy summers filled with sprinkler play and shark action in the swimming pool,

Yahtzee games, molasses sugar cookies, Looney Tunes and Little House on the Prairie.

Family of four hiking in the North Carolina woods, sliding backwards down the snow-covered hills,

And slipping on slimy rocks in the icy waters of the rushing mountain rivers.

Shades of purple and blue curve across the sky in mountainous peaks.

 

I am from lawnmowers, yard work, and raking pine needles,

Gardening, squawking chickens, and swingsets.

I am from Nancy Drew books, Green-Gabled Anne, and any paper-created imaginative world,

from teaching my classroom of dolls, from an imagination

That allowed me to become Tarzan on my tire swing, beating my chest.

From the support of friends who become family, hosting Fourth of July parties,

Lighting Christmas candles in the sanctuary, and organizing puppet shows.

I am from love.

From mother, father, grandparents, sister, friends.

 

I am from adult responsibilities at a young age, shaping me to work without question,

To listen to authority, and to accomplish tasks without complaint,

To stay busy, to never sit still, and to push to be the best I could be.

I am also from parents who showed me how to be a strong female,

From pushing for all A’s, the valedictorian spot, the All-State clarinet player,

The girl staying up late at night to make that A but never really discovering the joys of youth.

The girl who put up with behavior that was funny at the time but learned later it really wasn’t,

The girl who doubted herself thanks to remarks,

The girl who thought these comments were said in love but learned later they weren’t,

The girl who was told she could never make friends, was “too much” and expected too much,

The girl who did for others and cared for others more than for herself.

 

I am from the classroom, Romeo and Juliet, Invisible Man, and mythology,

Pride gained from the sparking eyes of my students who gained new knowledge,

Joy in helping fellow teachers, planning with them, dreaming big dreams.

I am from Everest-sized mountains of papers, of purple ink, of rows and columns of grades.

From grading in the car, at the doctor’s office, in the choir loft, at football games,

I am from staples, paper clips, folders, spiral notebooks, posters, and bulletin boards.

 

I am from nights spent singing to my sons, spent crying as I held my screaming, colicky baby,

I am from days and nights spent by myself with two little ones, from family 20 hours away,

I am from depression, feeling abandoned in a town where I knew no one,

Separated from my lifelong calling, only to find a new calling working with children.

Years of Vacation Bible School planning, Easter Eggstravaganzas, Children’s Church.

 

I am from a time of confusion and loss, a new life, a new Kim.

From a skunk-inhabited house, from swingsets built in the backyard,

From quiet nights without my sons, crying, worrying, and starting all over.

From worries about what new phone calls I would get with new attacks,

From moments of regret, of fear, of loneliness, of grief, of anxiety, of depression.

From years of therapy to find the new Kim, to find the girl she used to be, to find who she could be.

 

I am from the woman who went half her days without her sons, but treasured each moment ,

From little boy snuggles, giggles, and wrestling matches,

From Avatar The Last Airbender episodes, Spongebob, and Finding Nemo,

From stuffed puppy dogs and stuffed Nemos,

From river rafting, zoo trips, aquarium trips, family trips,

From nights spent reading The Three Little Billy Goats, Goodnight Moon

From moments spent outdoors flying kites, playing basketball, and throwing balls,

From the sports stands, the car line, robotics events, the graduations with black gowns,

I am from the cemetery beside my mother’s and my father’s caskets, all at once a little girl again,

I am from new promises, new jobs, new friends, and a new moment to walk down that aisle.

I am from new relationships in which I find love and companionship,

With friends who have encouraged, loved, and supported,

The woman who knows the truth about herself finally,

I am from butterfly promises that arrive as I push out of the chrysalis,

I am from dandelion wishes that are blown with hope and dreams,

I am the dragon stretching her wings,

I am the Phoenix, rising up from the ashes.

The Chutes and Ladders Dilemma

I used to love Chutes and Ladders.  There was nothing better than seeing my sister or my mom or dad get all the way up towards the top of the board and then hit the block for the big slide and end all the way back near the bottom.

Of course, I similarly loved the moment when I hit a spot with the large ladder and scooted easily all the way to the top of the board.  That big ladder was so much faster and easier than climbing each spot row-by-row all the way up.

SCOOT FORWARD TO 2022:

Ask anyone who has gone through a traumatic experience, and they will be able to understand the Chutes and Ladders dilemma.  They were meandering along, moving forward, scooting one spot at a time when all of a sudden, they hit the slide spot.  Depending on the situation, they either found themselves back a row (just a short distance) OR perhaps they found themselves at the start all over again.

There is nothing so devastating in life to have to find yourself at the start all over again, whether it is financially, emotionally, physically, mentally, or any other -lly.  It is one of the most discouraging moments to have to redefine yourself, to have to put pennies together to keep going, to learn how to do something all over again, to move forward as a Ms. instead of a Mrs., or to learn something difficult about others/life/God.

Even more frustrating and discouraging is the climb, struggle, and gasping effort to work back up the spots, spot by spot, row by row ------only to find a small slide and go backwards again.

For me, in the past 15 years, I have had to learn boundaries (I was going to say re-learn but perhaps never knew them before), had to redefine myself, had to learn to say no, had to learn to take care of myself in equal proportions to taking care of others, and so much more.

Every time I would think I was getting the hang of things, a situation in life would occur or a message from a person from my past would arrive, and I suddenly felt all my progress slip out from under my feet.  

My determination to believe in myself suddenly turned to doubt.  My promise to take care of myself became the realization that I had to care for someone else.  My vow never to let that person’s words get to me was broken in seconds as the tears rolled down my cheeks.  The no stayed on my tongue while I reluctantly agreed.

Sound familiar?

For a Type A perfectionist, these slips, these slides into former bad habits made me berate myself for once again doing what I said I wouldn’t do.  My thoughts varied from “You will never learn” or “So much for progress,” and I wondered whether it wouldn’t always be the same.  Or perhaps, whether I wouldn't always be the same.

I finally learned a truth that is not as easily visible in life as it might be on the Chutes and Ladders game board.

Two steps forward, one step back is still progress.

Five steps forward, three steps backward is STILL progress.

Six steps forward, five steps backward is EVEN MORE progress.

The reality is I will never be perfect.

The reality is that I will always take care of others and will also feel hurt when that certain person communicates.  

The reality is that my boundaries may never be bulletproof (and for that, I am sort of glad).

The reality is that I will continue to say yes . . . 

But the reality is also that . . . 

For every time I take care of others, I also try to keep in mind now to take care of me.

For every hurtful communication, I also have lots of positive communications with others and there are fewer tears and the hurt lasts a shorter period of time.

For every hurtful boundary crossing, at least it is more of a struggle to cross that boundary.

For every yes, I say no more often.

I may not be climbing 5 rows at once, but I am slowly moving forward.

Two steps forward with one small step back is still better than where I was yesterday.

And every once in a while, like this morning, when I said no, it seemed a HUGE accomplishment.   It was a solid no.  It was a quickly-replied no.  

I could suddenly look back and see where I started and where I am now.  I could see how far I’ve come, and I celebrated this morning.  I celebrated the work, the steadiness of the climb, and the struggle and success of each small step forward.

Peine forte et dure---Surviving the Weight of Life

 

It has been years since I read Arthur Miller’s The Crucible about the Salem witch trials.  Numerous moments in the narrative still remain in my mind, but one that particularly horrified me was Giles Corey’s pressing death.

I remember the horror of hearing of the pressing torture, Peine forte et dure.  Defendants who refused to admit they were witches had heavier and heavier weights placed on their chests until they suffocated to death or made this claim (see image above).

Rather than make a false claim, Giles Corey died a slow, agonizing death.

 If I am honest, sometimes life seems to be Peine forte et dure, a hard and forceful punishment.  In certain seasons of life, more and more weights are placed on top of us until we just cannot take another weight.

It is harder to breathe.  It is hard to remember what life was like before the weight.  We try to keep going.

The year 2020 was a Peine forte et dure for many of us.  For me, it involved COVID isolation and teaching, 3 lost graduation ceremonies, Andy’s loss of job offers after graduation, Andy and his “horse dog” moving in with us, Anthony’s emergency hospitalization for his heart, Mom’s sudden death, Anthony's dad's hospitalization, and other issues too sensitive even now to mention.  I knew the year 2021 surely would be better, but instead, it brought its own bundle of weighty issues, including the threat of cancer for me and the sudden surprising change of my responsibilities at work. 

The last 2 months and 21 days have felt like the pressing torture of last year never retreated, but instead, more weights were being added.  The grief over Mom’s death prior to my health issues was still fresh, a one-day-at-a-time situation, and all of a sudden, I faced some of the same fears, procedures, and tests my mom did in her final 3 months on earth.  There have been moments in the last 2 months and 21 days when I have also thought of other challenges I have faced in the past 15 years and when I have wondered how much stone weight could be added before giving up.

The surgeon’s words this morning that the breast tumor removed before Christmas was benign were weight-lifting words.

Today marks the first day in 2 months and 21 days that those stones have been lightened, and I’m not sure how to move.  Some of the parts of me have gone numb as a result of the pressing, so today is a new experience.  I am having to learn to walk, think, and live all over again. Today opens up the possibility for new feelings, for new beginnings, for a new year of hope.

If you are in the midst of Peine forte et dure right now, I have no magical words of relief for you.  I wish I did.  I do want you to know, though, a few truths:

1.  You are not alone.  You might feel like it since the weights on you often make you feel isolated.

2.  Remember that usually Peine forte et dure is not  a long-term situation.  Usually it is present for a season (but I cannot tell you how long your particular season will be).  All I know is each day is challenging when you are in the midst, but there IS an end in sight.

3.  Reach out to someone who can sit beside you in the pressing time.  There are others who will understand the trapped feeling of these weights.

4. Get help from doctors or counselors or friends.  Don’t lose hope.

5.    Listen to yourself and to your body.  Admit what you are feeling.  Be honest.  No need for shame to admit to God or yourself what you are thinking or what your heart is saying.  Try to honor where you are in the journey.

Peter Marshall once said, “When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grow strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressure.”

While I am not sure diamonds were created from my past 2 years, there has been some good. 

I hope I am like Giles Corey whose last words were “More . . . weight.”  He was willing to take the weight rather than give up his integrity.

I am not sure I am at this moment asking for more weight to be added.  I am enjoying the thought that I might be weightfree for a few days (or months).  

As a fellow sufferer of Peine forte et dure, just know I am here for anyone who is going through some difficult days.  I am good at listening . . . or maybe at distracting you from the rocks weighing you down.

Stocktanks and Hummingbirds beside the Sinkholes

Growing up in central Florida, I became familiar with sinkholes.  Lakes could be drained in a day, or whole homes would suddenly be swallowed. 

While I have not physically experienced being close to a physical sinkhole, I am well acquainted (as all of us are who live this life) with metaphorical sinkholes that just swallow your plans and dreams within seconds. 

While this is not technically a sinkhole story, several months before the Big Texas Freeze of 2021, we noticed our in-ground pool leaking large amounts of water. Our original plan was to figure out how to fix it. We loved the pool. When the numbers came back, we realized we needed to go another route. We could not keep a pool.  Those days were gone.  Instead, we decided to fill in our pool and create a backyard oasis. The dogs now have room to run and chase, we have 5 bird feeders and 2 hummingbird feeders full of flying creatures, and we put in a stocktank pool redneck-style complete with a pump and filter. We have backyard seating areas where I now sit every day and read. Swimming this past summer was not the same, but what was a loss has become one of my favorite things about my house.

  

Though few know this, four years ago, my youngest announced he would live full-time with his dad. That conversation and the days and months after it felt like a sinkhole had swallowed me up.  Feelings of utter loss and devastation were as real as a hole in the ground. I felt like a failure. I felt shame. There is no way to fill in this sinkhole.  My life has not been the same. We talk, he responds to texts, and we see each other about 8 hours a year even though he lives 10 minutes away. He still loves me and hugs me hard enough to squeeze all the air out of me, and my heart breaks if I think about him for too long--even now. There is no way to fill in this loss or make it better.  None whatsoever.  However, I cannot remain at the bottom of the sinkhole.  I have invested instead in others who need the love of someone who cares. I have found out new things about myself.  I have spent more time sitting and being rather than doing.  And I treasure every moment with this young man when I get to see him.

  

Obviously, for all of us, the past almost 2 years have been a sinkhole of sorts, swallowing up graduation ceremonies, lives of loved ones, family get-togethers, and plans for the future.  Our sense of security and confidence in how things will go have been swallowed up just as surely as if it were a physical sinkhole.  There are no ways to recover those days or those lives.  However, I have learned that I can maintain my friendships long-distance, I can learn to know my students just as intensely, and I can treasure the small moments of life that I do get to enjoy now that life is returning a bit back to normal.

This past summer at the urging of my primary physician, I had genetic testing to see if I had the same genetic mutation that possibly led to Mom's breast cancer. I did. It was surreal to suddenly find myself with an oncologist, taking a pill cancer patients take to reduce my chances. Within a month, a breast MRI (part of my new annual regime) found an abnormality. It was found to be benign, but the lesion is the type hard to monitor and often is surrounded by malignancies. So, here I am today awaiting a lumpectomy on Friday (a little over a year after Mom died of complications of chemo for breast cancer) and will await biopsy results over Christmas. In the meantime, due to other testing I was ordered as a part of my new high-risk cancer regime, out of the blue (with no symptoms) came the diagnosis of erosive esophagitis and gastropathy.  Thankfully, we found it before the damage became more permanent and before it could become cancer, and again I await biopsy results from those tests.

To say that these health issues did not feel like a sinkhole had swallowed me up all over again would be a lie.  To say I handled the sudden ground-swell of changes with grace would also be a lie. I have cried, wailed, and yelled at my perceived injustice. This person who rarely saw the doctor other than for required annual visits has seen more doctors in 3 months than she probably has in the past 15 years put together.  Anxiety, my constant stalker, has reared up in ugly ways. In the meantime, my friends and husband have stepped up to hold me in the midst.

The sinkholes of life are not easy.  They may never be filled in as before.  I am not the same person I was before Jonathan left, before job changes this year, before my health issues arose. In so many ways, I am glad I am not that same person.

Despite being told for 20 years of my early adulthood that I was unlovable and unfriend-able, the experiences of  the past 4 years have revealed more friends, more hugs, more support, and more unjudgmental acceptance than I would have ever anticipated. This strong Type A has finally admitted she needs help from others who have jumped in to help.  I am more sensitive to those with less-than-ideal family situations, and I try to be aware of others' hurts.

I may not have my pool, but I have beautiful hummingbirds buzzing around, and my dogs chasing each other bring me joy.

I may not have the relationship I have longed for with my youngest, but I know he knows that I love him unconditionally, completely, and without judgment.  I also know that when I am reunited completely with him one day I will treasure each second even more.

I may not have had the health news I anticipated at the start of 2021, but I have found new ways to appreciate the present, and I have discovered how important it is for me to ask for help.

The future looms wide open.  The sinkholes may continue to come.  

However, in the midst, just know I am a text, FB message, or phone call away.  We can always set up a stocktank pool beside the sinkhole, share a Diet Dr. Pepper, and laugh at something while we watch the hummingbirds.

Love Letters at Christmas

A little over a year ago, I was going through Mom’s belongings.  In a nondescript white box with a stretch band around it, I was shocked to find the presence of hundreds of handwritten love letters from my mom to my dad and from my dad to my mom.  Knowing my parents, I believe that they each kept these letters, not because they needed paper to remind them of their love, but because keeping the letters was a tangible way for them to communicate that the small moments of each other’s lives, their thoughts, and their dreams mattered.  The letters communicated the priority of their relationship and love.  

Similarly, I found a stack of all the Christmas letters Mom wrote from the early 1970s until her death.  I believe she kept them for a similar reason:  because she truly felt her Christmas letters were love letters to friends who were like family.  

Honestly, the entire Christmas story is really a love letter of sorts—of God realizing that we people had confused His true identity with too much religiosity and too many rules.  Imagine His horror to see that some believed that God only loved people who looked like them, talked like them, and lived like them.  Many felt like they were completely left out of God’s love.  The Christmas story is based on God sending His Son to communicate to these people who felt unlovable how much He loved them.  How do I know?  Because Jesus primarily spent all his life with the poor, the ignored, the women and children, and societal outcasts, convincing them that they were not too unimportant for God to love them.

If Christmas is all about love letters to those who matter to us, then, Christmas Letter 2021 is a love letter to you.  It is a love letter to my family--and to my friends who are like family:

• To my son, Andy:  How you have turned your life around in the past year—from working full-time, to beginning your MBA at Baylor, to your new adventure in January moving to Reno, Nevada, for an internship as program manager for new designs for Tesla! Since you are fairly independent already, I know you will accomplish great things and fly high (as your grandpa would say). 
• To my son, Jonathan:  I am so proud of you for working so hard as a full-time environmental science major at Baylor and a student worker.  I so admire your ability to be 100% in the moment, living life to the fullest.  Despite any distance, you are never away from my thoughts.
• To my husband, Anthony:  How you have taken your skills and talents and created a real estate business model that attracts clients across the country amazes me each day.  You live big and love big, and you never fail to be there for all of us, whether it is a son who needs a car, a client who needs a house, or a wife who needs constancy in the midst of it all. 
• To my friends who are like family (that is ALL OF YOU):  Thank you for being in my life.  Thank you to so many of you for your prayers, thoughts, or check-ins with me in the past year.  Losing my mom last year, joined together with COVID online teaching, and then discovering I have my own breast tumor (thankfully, benign), you have kept me going on this roller coaster of life, holding on to me when I was flying out of the seat. 

For all of us at Christmas, especially all of us who feel unloved, ignored, unseen, unheard, unappreciated, too much, or not enough, certain times of the year can be rough.  However, at Christmas, God’s message in His love letter meant just for you is this:  I love you.  Wholly.  Unconditionally.  Just as you are.

For all of you living a Christmas that is not quite as you imagined it: perhaps with sick parents, a family member who is no longer there, unruly kids, alienated children, a home with a tiny Charlie Brown tree with just a couple presents beneath, this Christmas letter is hopefully my small way of letting you know you matter.  You have made an impact on my life.  This is my love letter to you.

All of us occasionally need a “love letter” created just for us.   May this year be one filled with moments where you are assured of love.

 

 

My Stalkers

 "Stalked" by Ruzuuki

I cannot recall her face.  Or her voice.

However, her smile is inscribed in my memory.

I will call her D.  I have purposely forgotten all but her smile because of the numerous years of hell she put my family through while I was finishing high school and attending college.

D was a young lady who attended the same high school I did.  She had Mom as her English teacher, and she knew Dad as the principal of her junior high school (and ultimately of her high school).  She and Kelly were classmates. 

Raised in an abusive home, D decided my parents should be her parents, and in this reasoning, my sister and I did not deserve them.  She began calling our house.  Hundreds of times each day for years—no exaggeration at all.  

Before the existence of call blocking or caller ID, our options were non-existent.  We had to have a phone.  The DA told us to write down the times of each of her calls.  We had notebooks full of records.

She called at 6 a.m.  She called at 1 a.m.  She called at all hours in between.  She called while we were on vacation in North Carolina (since she knew we had a tiny home there).  She tracked me down through directory assistance and called me in my college apartment.  She called my sister in hers.  She drove by our house dozens of times each day.  She followed us home from church.  She waited for us in mall parking lots, in grocery stores, by our mailbox.  She tried to run my sister over. 

She did all of this with a smile on her face and a friendly wave to make sure we saw her.

All our friends knew who she was, and we warned repeatedly that if something happened to one or all of us, they would know who was likely behind it.

-----

Trying to explain the nightmare of a stalker is really impossible.  There is no way to explain the constant feeling of helplessness.  The fear.  The unknown.

Years have passed since D has been in my life—even though she did call the night Dad died, and my sister and I kept anticipating a call from her when Mom died.  Perhaps she has finally moved on.

Despite the fact that D is not calling all the time, I now have another type of stalker in my life.

Just like D, my current stalker, who I will call A, follows me many hours of the day.  However, A is especially effective in the attack in the middle of the night.

A is relentless.  Distance does not matter.  Essential oils and relaxation techniques do not make her go away.  My willpower to get away from her is unequaled.  However, she does not give up.  She believes she knows best by pelting me with What If’s so the “little girl” in me does not get surprised by any more than possible. 

------

A, otherwise referred to by others as Anxiety, has raised her ugly head in my life several times since my divorce.  Just when I think she has disappeared, life happens, and here she is again.

Following me.

Waving at me. 

The past few months A has been a shadow of mine.  This summer I was diagnosed as someone at high risk for cancer, and within weeks of this diagnosis, after many diagnostic tests and a biopsy, A has been a stalker in my life.    The anniversary of my mother’s death from cancer complications coinciding with all this has not helped.

I want A gone.  Just as badly as I wanted D gone many years ago.

In high school, Kelly and I refused to open the door because we were convinced D would once again be at our front door and might do something to us. 

Just as with D, with my new stalker A, I have been anxious about what is on the other side of the door.  What awaits me?  Am I prepared?  

I find that I am just not ready to open that door sometimes.

 ------

What I realize now about my two stalkers is the difference in how I feel about my role.

My family never blamed ourselves for D’s actions.  We did nothing to deserve the dogged attention she paid to us.  We did all we could to discourage her.  We did the best we knew how to do at the time to keep moving forward without her attached.

Why is it so hard, then, for me not to blame myself for A’s stalking?

Perhaps the blame is a result of the years of clichés of “Let Go, and Let God” and “Let Jesus take the Wheel” and “The Bible repeats ‘Do not fear’ 365 times, once for each day of the year.”  As I was repeatedly told, people who are depressed or anxious do not trust God enough.  This guilt then only makes sure that A comes to visit more often.

Perhaps blame is the result of men like a doctor yesterday who said all the wrong things to a female who was anxious, who made me feel like the hysterical women of the 1800s and early 1900s.

Perhaps a sense of self-blame is the traditional consequence of my overzealous, perfectionist self.  However, I can no more control my perfectionism and drive than I can A.

------ 

Instead, I want to believe that, just as with D, my new stalker A is here just a brief season of my life.

Perhaps, A will make me recognize the value of the current moment. 

Perhaps, A will remind me of the friends and family who have supported me daily for months---and years. 

Perhaps, just as with D, A will help me realize something about the hurt in others. 

Perhaps I should tack this to the outside of my metaphorical door:

Dear Stalker,

“I will transform you into something useful and productive.  I will not bow down to you.” (Jaeda DeWalt)

Kim

Eleven, and Ten, and Nine: Reflections on the Loss of My Mother

    

In Sandra Cisneros' "Eleven," the young female protagonist writes: "What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven."

So, on this day that approaches the one-year anniversary of my mom's death in a few days, at my current age of 52, I realize I am also:

1. My 51-year-old self who held my mother's hands as she died 367 days ago. Who laughed with her during her last 3 days. Who was fortunate to be able to tell her of my love and admiration before she was gone. The 51-year-old who was not ready to be parentless.

2. The 47-year-old parent calling her on my commute from work each day, sharing teacher stories and proud Mom stories during my oldest son's senior year. Thousands of miles away, she was a part of my daily life story

3. My 35-year-old self who called her each morning and evening, crying, revealing my broken heart and fears for my children in the midst of my divorce.

4.The 29-year-old self traveling with her to weekly garage sales, buying baby clothes, laughing when a garage sale was awful, singing a silly song left over from childhood, "Give me a J, give me a U, give me an N, give me a K. What do you have? Junk sale!" (Funny I just remembered that writing this)

5. My 27-year-old self who laughed hysterically with her as we purchased the biggest 7-11 convenience store soda made (64 or 70 oz.) in a cup so big we could not drink and still see the road.

6. The 23-year-old self who watched my mom speak with strength and courage at my dad's funeral at the hardest moment of her life.

7. My middle school-aged self who sat in admiration at Mom play an Atari duck hunting game for so long she had indentations from the game gun on the side of her nose.

8. The younger self who watched her pick up dumped cucumbers on the side of a country road and go home and pickle them.  Or wield an ax or use a chainsaw on a tree.  Through her, I knew women were indestructible.

SO . . . . 

If it is true at 52 years of age that I am all those other ages, my mom never leaves. She never disappears. Her DNA still runs in my blood. (Since I unfortunately have the same genetic mutation that possibly led to her cancer, I now have medical proof it is true). My previous selves were molded and shaped and transformed by her personality and presence. 

I know now the words I shared with her after Dad's death are oh so true:

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still." Henry Scott Holland

Mom, I love you. I wish you were here. Not a day has gone by where I have not missed the one person who understood me better than anyone else. I am so glad you are a part of my DNA!