It's been nine years today since my mom died. It's funny: you'd think everything about that awful day would be sort of burned into my memory, as sieve-like as it is, but it really isn't. I just went back and read my blog entries written the week afterward. I didn't remember the knock on the door as being almost 3 o'clock, for example; if you'd asked me I might have said noon. I almost started crying, reading them, but lunch is in ten minutes and I'd rather not have a puffy face. I still can't believe my last entry before that, at the beginning of September, just about the reality of settling back into Fairfield for senior year. I looked at the earlier entries, too, for mentions of her. We're going to Florence for my birthday this week. It's always been hard for me to conceptualize that when I came home from studying abroad, she only had a few more months to live. I didn't know, you never know, but.
What would she think now? Me, living in Italy, Jen, pregnant with a grandson. On the phone with Jen last night I realized how terribly sad I am for her, that our mom won't be there for the birth of her child. I wish Jen could have that, almost more than I wish I could have her back for myself.
How far we've come as sisters. I am lucky to have her, in the end. I was lucky to have the mom I did, too.
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