Days of observance lost

Today is Mom's birthday.  Of course, I won't be celebrating it with her, because she died on February 11.  I will, though, think about her throughout the day and miss her.

Though she lived in Florida and I am in North Carolina, she was at least virtually present, as one's parents often are, in all the usual days of celebration.  This year, I'm having the first of each of those days without her, and I am finding them odd and sad.

On my birthday, for the first time in decades I did not receive a silly, sappy card telling me how glad she was that I was her son. She'd spend hours shopping for each of those cards, and I frequently mocked them, but I also knew deep down that she meant what they said.

In less than two weeks, we'll have a made-up holiday, Mother's Day, but I won't be able to call her. 

The annual family beach holiday will roll by without her.

And so on. 

It's been a long time since I had a father, but being without a mother is a relatively new experience. 

I'm going to keep her in my head and in my heart on all of these of these dates.  I'll probably whisper aloud a few words to her, not because she can hear them, but because I can.  Words, perhaps, like these.

Happy birthday, Mom.  I miss you.  I love you.