Rest in Peace Momma.

(Momma, age 16, left, and Aunt age 15, right)

Eight years ago today, just before dawn, my mother passed away. With one last soft breath, let out in a quiet sigh, she left us. And each March 27th I'm a little quieter, I walk a little slower. I'm just a little sad. Because I'm remembering. My sister calls every year to remind me about "the day" - as if I needed reminding. Sis leaves a quiet voicemail, suggesting maybe we should go put flowers down at the cemetery. But we never do. We talk about it, but never do.

All eight years I've grieved. And I think I've finally come to a place of peace. A small, fragile-as-a-bird's-wing place of peace but nonetheless it's there. Where before this day would immobilize me, now I just retreat to a place of quiet reflection. I've tried to come to terms with my grief in various ways with varying amounts of success. I loved my Momma and have tried to comfort myself by telling myself that whenever I do things she loved, she lives. Her spirit arises from wherever it lays, or floats down from whatever cloud it has alighted on, and joins mine for time. Every time I knead bread dough, or run, or sing at the top of my lungs in the car, or dance, or shop for shoes, or sip a margarita, or eat salsa and chips, or decorate a Christmas tree, or measure out ingredients for cookies, scraping the knife across the measuring cup full of flour so its level - she lives. She's with me again. On days like today, that's what I hold onto.