One of the things I loved about my mom was that she always bought all the magazines- ALL the magazines- and she saved them for me. Magazines are something I rarely got to splurge on when Ryan was in PA school so I always looked forward to the stack she saved me. I miss her- and her magazines.
This last week I splurged on a People and in it was an article about a mom who lost all three of her girls in a tragic car wreck. She had written a book about her loss- and her girls. She talked about how terribly hard it was to write- how hard it was to remember. She said she did it because she wanted people to know them. She wanted people to know their life and for them to be remembered.
A thing that scares me the most is that Owen won't remember. He won't remember how he was the light of her world, how she wanted him to love the Rangers, Cowboys, and Mavericks more than most things, how she sang 'My Only Sunshine" to him as she rocked him. He won't remember- and it kills me.
I realized as I read that article that even though it hurts me to talk, write, and remember. I have to. I have to so that he will know her.
I felt this way about her funeral too. I didn't want it to be a generic funeral. I wanted it to be her funeral. I wanted people to know her. This is the letter I wrote that was read.
One of our last conversations, you told me you regretted not ever going to back to college to be a teacher, but as I reflect back on your life. I realize just how much of a teacher you were. Over the years, you taught me a lot of things, things that you realized and things you didn’t. I’ll probably never be able to recount all the things you taught me, but a few do stick out.
You taught me how to make a bed- the right way. I didn’t appreciate this until much later in life, and I’m hoping one day Ryan might learn too.
Even though writing it was terribly hard, people left knowing her better. I want that for Owen too- and for her.