Happy Birthday, Mom. You have missed forty birthday parties. And I have missed you! Even though you would be an older woman now, seventy-one years old if I counted right, I still miss you. I miss your smile, your contagious laugh, your hug, your perfume, your quick walk, your “can-do-anything” attitude, your persistence, your self-determination, your love of anything outdoors, your knowledge of herbs, your never-ending service to others—a best friend to all. I miss your voice and your touch and your smell. I miss your love.
Like Dad said not too long ago, I would give anything to see you again. But for now, I am grateful for the times you whisper to my heart that you are near—that you watch over me, on God’s errand—that you love me.
I see you in the birds and in the butterflies and in the majestic mountain peaks. I feel you in the breeze and the warmth of a summer day. I hear you in the stream that passes by your mountain home and in the songs of angels sung at Christmas time. You are in the sunshine that warms my body and my heart.
Mom, I love you.
I miss you.