My Mom Passed Away And I Miss Her
Hey there. So, let's talk about something a little heavy, but in a way that might surprise you. My mom passed away. Yeah, it’s one of those things. Life happens, and sometimes it’s incredibly sad.
But here's the thing. Even though it stings, I've been thinking a lot about all the hilariously brilliant moments we shared. You know, those little quirks that made her, well, her.
It’s funny how the saddest things can also be the most entertaining, isn't it? Like, the way she used to narrate her cooking. Every chop, every sizzle, had a full backstory.
She’d be like, “And this onion, oh, this onion has seen things. It’s probably met a few generations of carrots before us.” I used to roll my eyes, but now? Pure gold.
And her signature dance moves. Oh my goodness. Nobody could clear a room like my mom with her spontaneous kitchen disco. She’d whip out these moves that defied gravity and good taste.
Seriously, it was like watching a proud peacock attempting ballet. But the best part was the sheer joy on her face. That’s what I miss the most. That unadulterated, unapologetic happiness.
She had this way of finding humor in absolutely everything. A spilled cup of coffee? "Oh, the universe is just giving our floor a little caffeine boost!" A burnt piece of toast? "Well, that's just a little charcoal art for your breakfast."
She never let a little mishap ruin her day. Instead, it became a story to tell, a reason to laugh. And we laughed a lot. Like, really, really laughed.
Her stories were legendary. She’d weave tales of her childhood, exaggerating just enough to make them utterly captivating. You’d swear she was living in a movie.
I remember one time she was telling me about a school play. Apparently, she was supposed to be a tree. A tree! And she decided to interpret "tree" as "interpretive dance tree."
So, she stood there, swaying and twirling, much to the confusion of the other, more stoic, tree-actors. The audience was apparently in stitches. She always had the best anecdotes.
Then there were her fashion choices. Bless her heart. She had a particular fondness for anything with sequins. And I'm not talking subtle sparkles. I'm talking full-on disco ball vibes.
She’d wear a sequined cardigan to the grocery store. And not just any sequins, but the kind that shed like a glitter-bomb. The checkout lines were always a bit more dazzling when she was around.
But she wore it with such confidence. It was like she owned every single sequin. And you know what? That’s inspiring. That’s a lesson in self-acceptance right there.
She also had a unique talent for giving unsolicited advice. And it was always delivered with the best intentions, of course. Even if it was about how I should iron my socks.
Iron my socks? Who irons socks? My mom, apparently. She insisted it made them "nicer." I still don’t understand it, but I can almost hear her voice explaining the finer points of sock-ironing right now.
And her baking! Oh, her baking was something else. It was never quite perfect. The cakes were sometimes lopsided, the cookies a bit too brown. But they tasted like pure love.
She’d always call it her “artistic creations.” And you know what? They were. Each bite was a masterpiece of comfort and home. Especially her infamous, slightly-too-salty, cookies.
She had this catchphrase too. Whenever something didn't go as planned, she'd sigh dramatically and say, "Well, that's just the way the cookie crumbles." And then she'd usually hand you one of those slightly-too-salty cookies.
It’s these little eccentricities that make me smile, even through the tears. They’re the threads that weave the vibrant tapestry of her memory.
I remember one time we were on a road trip, and she decided she absolutely needed to sing along to every single song on the radio. At the top of her lungs. Off-key.
The car was a tiny, vibrating sound booth of her enthusiastic, yet tuneless, renditions. People in other cars probably thought we were being attacked by a very loud bird.
But I was in the passenger seat, just laughing. Because her joy was contagious. Her willingness to be silly and uninhibited was a gift.
She taught me that it’s okay to be a little bit weird. In fact, it’s more than okay, it’s wonderful. It’s what makes life interesting.
She was like a walking, talking, sequined exclamation point. Always adding a splash of color to even the dullest of days.
I miss her cooking, her laughter, her terrible singing. I miss the way she’d call me “sweet pea,” even when I was a grown adult with bills and responsibilities.
I miss her ability to find a silver lining in the absolute cloudiest of skies. She was a master of optimistic spin.
She’d always say, "Every cloud has a silver lining, even if it's just a really, really fluffy one." And I think she saw more fluffy linings than most.
It’s strange. The world feels a little quieter now. A little less sparkly. A little less prone to impromptu kitchen dances.
But then I think about those moments, those perfectly imperfect moments, and I can’t help but smile. And that’s the magic, you know?
That even in the sadness, there’s so much that’s worth celebrating. So much that’s entertaining. So much that’s special.
My mom, my wonderful, eccentric, sequin-loving mom, she was truly one of a kind. And her stories, her spirit, they live on.
They live on in me, in the memories we shared, and in the way I try to find the humor in things, just like she did.
It’s like a little piece of her glitter is still sprinkled around, making the world a bit brighter. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
So yeah, I miss her. Terribly. But I also find myself chuckling at the thought of her, and that feels pretty special too. It’s a beautiful kind of bittersweet.
And if you’ve ever had someone in your life who brought that kind of unique sparkle, that kind of contagious laughter, you’ll understand. It’s a treasure.
It’s the kind of treasure that makes you want to share its story. And that’s what I’m doing, I guess.
Sharing a little bit of my mom’s incredible, entertaining, and deeply missed life. Because the memories are too good not to.
They’re too vibrant, too hilarious, too full of love, to just let fade away.
So here’s to my mom. And here’s to all the wonderfully quirky people who make our lives so much more interesting.
May their stories live on, bringing smiles and maybe even a few sequins into the world.
Because at the end of the day, isn't that what it's all about? The joy, the laughter, the unforgettable moments.
My mom gave me plenty of those. And for that, I'll be forever grateful.
And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of her sock-ironing wisdom will rub off on me yet. Who knows?
It's the unexpected things, the little eccentricities, that truly make life an adventure. And my mom was the ultimate adventurer.
Thank you for listening. It means a lot to share this little piece of her with you.
Her spirit is still here, in every laugh, in every memory, in every slightly-too-salty cookie.
And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing indeed.