Mom's Birthday

Mom would have been 89 today. Not that long ago I had every expectation she would make it, and beyond. For some reason 93 had always been in my mind. Ah well. She went quickly and she went at home, for both of which I am sure she's grateful. 

I don't feel as though it's really hit me yet. We're coming on five months now. Sundays have reverted to plain old Sundays. The pair of us no longer tool around, doing minor shopping and having all those lunchtime cheeseburgers. Most of the rest of the week feels like usual: work, write, travel a bit, have an occasional dinner out. When I do stop by her house, I always say hi to her front porch chair as I enter.

There's granola bars left in the console of my new old van, remnants of having them on hand for when she got the munchies. She probably ate more granola bars in the last five years of her life than most of us eat, ever. But she ate. That was the main thing. 

What is, is, I suppose. I just don't feel more than vaguely numb even now, and that worries me. 

A rather melancholy way to say Happy Birthday, ain't it? But, Happy Birthday, Mom. No doubt it's a good one.