Today I watched your daughter dance. She was beautiful up there and I wish you could have seen it. She did her own make up today, not because she wanted to, but she’s trying so hard to learn how to do the things you were always here for. After their performance, we would’ve texted about how well they danced. You would’ve made a joke about something that would’ve genuinely made me laugh. Instead, today I drove to your cemetery. I left you flowers. The grass hasn’t yet grown in, a reminder that you haven’t been gone that long. I stood in the rain and I watched the raindrops fall onto the rose petals. My face couldn’t differentiate my tears from the rain. I thought that if I brought you flowers that had been at the performance then it was like I was bringing you a piece of today. I know you wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You never missed any of it. You always showed up for your kids.
Dance would be a particularly difficult sport when you lose a mom. Moms do the make up and the hair and pay attention to the details of a costume. Somehow she gets through it. I love that she gets to dance at the same studio where you danced, too. When she smiles on stage I see your smile, too.
You were a friend I met through our daughters. For years on Thursday nights, you parked three spots to my left. I would pull in and look over to you and you’d smile that smile that lights up a room. And now you’re not there and almost six months later my eyes still blur as I watch her walk out of the studio but not get into your car. She smiles at me, that big smile like her mom, and I see you there. I want to rewind the years and run over to your car and get to know you sooner, better. I’ve realized now that for whatever reason, this is the part of the journey where our paths were supposed to cross. This is the part where I’m here and you’re not, but I will be here for your girl.
What a privilege it is to see where you came from and to see where you were going. There are no new memories to make with you, and I finally got to be a part of your life at the end. I feel like I’m still getting to know you in your postscript. Your people have shared so many stories with me and how lucky I feel to get to know you better, even after you’ve left.
You should see the way your crew gets it done, immensely missing you, but getting it done. Those grandmas are always there to do what is needed and your husband shows up at the practices and waits for her in a sea of moms, just as I’m sure you knew he would.
I once told you I lost my dad when I was her age and I know you truly heard me when I said I’d be there for her. I know how it feels to miss a parent so much that you feel your heart literally break. But I also know how it feels to feel that person right by my side, at every step of the dreams he dreamed for me. I know that during all of those moments your family loves, the ones they wish they could tell you about, that it was probably you that made that moment happen. You are so missed and where there is deep grief, there was great love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that we end up at the same place, you just got there first.
I know what it feels like to watch the support of a standing room only funeral fade over time. I also know how it feels when others don’t forget. I know how it feels when 25 years later, someone still mentions my dad. Sometimes people are afraid to mention who we lost, ‘in case we aren’t thinking about it.’ As if we ever aren’t thinking about it.
I’ve learned that some of the greatest friends I’ve met are the friends my kids introduced me to. You were one of them. This weekend our team leaves for our first competition and you won’t be there. I miss you and I wanted you to know.
Your kids are incredible. When we see them, we see so much of you.
I will be here to remind them that you’re still there in all they do.
The last text I have from you is you asked if you needed to pack a lunch for her practice. I read your text, realizing it hadn’t even crossed my mind to pack a lunch for that practice. I was so glad you asked – I didn’t know either. That was on a Thursday and on a cloudy Sunday you were gone. The last text I have from you was you always putting your kids first.
The world is better because you were in it. Miss you, friend.