March 13

Thirteen is one of those high-profile numbers. For some, it is considered unlucky. Ooooh, thirteeeennnnnnnnn...even hotels don't have a thirteenth floor because of the superstition tied to the number. For others, it's quite the opposite. Thirteen is a lucky number for them...a number to bet on, if you're so inclined.

For me, the number has never had much meaning. That is, until four years ago when it became the day my mother died.

Let me tell you, the significance of this day is not lost on me. But, I must say it is no harder than any of the other 364 days out of the year that I don't have Mom in my life. A random Tuesday in January might showcase her absence as much, if not more. You know, a day when I've had it up to my eyeballs with my son's incessant whining because I made him take a bath before breakfast instead of after...or when I hear a song that I know she would have loved...those are my March 13th's. The problem is, I never know when they'll be appearing on the calendar. I can't plan ahead to prepare to be sad or particularly melancholy. Instead, those days hit me out of the blue--with no warning or preparation.

If I had my way, I think I'd rather have this one day to grieve each year. One day to stay in my PJ's, watch sappy movies, look through pictures, listen to all of her favorite music...just taking time to wallow in my sadness. Then, March 14th would come along and I'd go back to my carefree existence without the daily reminders of how much I miss her.

But, it doesn't work that way and, to tell you the truth, I'm OK with that. It's the little remembrances that keep her memory alive through the years. It's tasting a lime popsicle and knowing how much she enjoyed them. It's looking at my hands and seeing the same lines appearing that I remember seeing on hers when I was a child. It's seeing a pattern in the sewing section of Wal-mart, the conglomeration of paint colors on my palette as I paint a mural in my son's room and, most of all, it's knowing how much she would adore him and the witty banter which has become his trademark.

March 13 is here once again. Yes, it's been four years. Yes, another spring is upon us and, sadly, she won't be here to revel in it. I get sad to think that the daffodils are sprouting up everywhere and the azalea buds are about to burst open and she isn't here to enjoy it.

But, she is here.

She is alive in the smell of the soup simmering on my stove and the neatly folded stack of dish towels on the counter. She's here when re-runs of Designing Women play in the background while I cook dinner or when I put yet another load of laundry in the dryer. She's alive in the words that I write and the songs that I sing and the sparkle in my son's eyes. Believe me, she's very much here.