I realize I've not written in quite a while, and that's rather shameful of me. I've either been on the run or trying to beat a cold for the past month, so writing has not been a priority. Even now, I'd rather not, but I feel the need.
Those of you who have known me for some time will probably realize the significance of this day. Fifteen years ago today, my parents walked into my third grade classroom, whispering with my teacher, Mrs. Porter. Mom cupped her hand over her mouth and Dad looked unusually teary-eyed. Somehow, I knew the news could not be good. It wasn't. Just after 12:30 that day, my mom and their only daughter breathed her last as they held her hand.
Today is my black day. Today, I cancelled my class (entirely honestly due to a worsening migraine), and I imagine I will stay home tonight and simply email my paper to my professor. I don't want to try to be social today. I've already burst into tears once, and I would be very surprised if it didn't happen again, and when it does, I don't want to cry in front of anyone.
She was only two years older than I am now--she was 26. Her body was worn out.
I can't really articulate the way I feel today without something I say being potentially misconstrued, and I don't want to have to explain myself. Just know that while I rejoice for her peace and presence with the Lord (there's no place better to be), the fact that I missed getting to know her better than a flighty nine-year-old can know her mother will always break my heart. I miss her, and I miss that I didn't get to know her.
Fifteen years ago, I grew up in a split second. Afterward, I tried hard to make up for it by holding on to fantasy as long as I could (I still cling to it to this day), but it couldn't change the fact that my innocence left me that day.