I’m not ready. Not ready for time to just keep trudging forward without her. Four years have gone by, and I still think about her every day. When that awful third day of October rules around every year it’s like a tidal wave comes and sweeps me up tossing me this way and that. The rest of the year I can bob up and down with the occasional waves of grief. But the week before October 3rd the waves pick up, and I can’t see over the crest of one before the next is already upon me. I find myself unable to catch my breath.

I know what I have imagined for us now, if you were still here, is probably not as good as it would be if this had all never happened. Isn’t that always the case? But if I had a chance to have you back now knowing the insurmountable feeling of loss it is to live without you, I’d make it the best of times. I’d call you every day. I’d bring the family to see you every chance I got.

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I’d invite you over for the most minute reason, just to see your face, hear your voice, feel your arms wrap around me as you say, “Hey, Margie Marge!” I would revel in the sound of my kids screaming, “Mimi! Mimi! Mimi!” as they catch sight of you through our bye-bye window.

The walls of my new home aren’t as warm since they haven’t known your presence or heard your name called. They aren’t as bright since they haven’t absorbed the sounds of your boisterous laughter. Tasks have gone undone around the house because I know if you were here I’d ask for your help in doing it. I’d ask for your opinion. You helped me hang the curtains at our first home. What mark have you left on this one?

The loss is palpable this time of year. A backpack of grief slung heavy over my shoulders as I struggle to keep it together and be the wife/mom/sister/friend that I know would make you proud.

I’m not ready for another day without you. And yet it comes. All 24 hours of its beautiful newness tinged with grief and loss.

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I ache to talk to you. To have your ears tickled with the words of appreciation I have for you now. The appreciation I should’ve poured over you all 27 and a half years of my life I got you. I have so much I regret not telling you. So much of my life I kept hidden from you because of shame. I came from you, and yet I never allowed you to see the deepest parts of me. Motherhood is weird like that.

You’re still my mommy, and I’m still a young girl that’s hurting and needs you. I’m not ready to move on, to keep going. To see everything change. For the world to move on. It’s not fair. It’s not freaking fair.

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Emily Hoban

Hello, I’m Emily! Wife, mom of three, and daughter of a woman who, in October 2019, left us to grace the halls of Heaven. I find peace in writing out my heart, and I hope my words can help someone feel seen in their similar struggles.

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