That Thing Called Faith
On losing my mom three months ago
My mom passed away three months ago. It’s still hard to say it out loud. Even to write it. It surprises me at random times. Most of the time, I’m okay, and then something happens, and I’m back in that moment. Laughing at this or that. And then that phone call.
“She’s gone.”
I know that I screamed. I know that I dropped to the floor because my husband ran in to hug me. I know that I cried. And I heard the person at the other end comforting me.
I cried for three days. I didn’t eat for five. It’s strange — that thing we call faith. I hadn’t thought about it for a long time. And then I was staring death in the face, and I wondered.
I’m not religious. I don’t believe in institutions. But I have to believe there’s more. There’s that thing called faith.
I still talk to her. I fight with her. I cry with her. I laugh with her.
She’s here. But she’s not. I’ll never see her smile again. I’ll never hold her hand again. My kids will never feel her hugs again.
All that is left are my memories of her—the contradiction she was, just like all of us. And that’s when I wish I had more of that thing called faith.
