One Year

This month marks the the first anniversary of my mom’s death.
It was weird. I thought I would be struck by it, but mostly it snuck up on me. My brother, sister, and I each have A LOT going on, separately.  My brother is hustling trying to start a business in Seattle, my sister has four kids, each of which plays multiple sports.  Both have a lot to manage.  Me… I just… well… I just.  I haven’t figured out a way to a) say no; and b) work smarter, not harder.  So, for me, its often just grinding trying to make all the pieces fit together and work.  This was probably a bit of a blessing, to be honest.  It kept  the anniversary of her death from looming… I looked up one day, and it had been a year.

My dad hasn’t started sending her stuff yet.  She had en entire bedroom full of craft stuff- my brother’s wedding quilt, a quilt for Nico, yarn, wool, leather, so many craft supplies, patterns, and books.  The week that she died, my dad said that he would send these boxes; but I don’t think he appreciated how expensive that would turn out to be.  I can imagine when they do start arriving, that those days will be hard- or maybe they will be great.  Opening a box and touching fibers my mom had touched.  Or using a pair of her knitting needles for a new project. Maybe that will be comforting.

I am fighting in a judo tournament next week. Mom was really interested in my fights… often, she was the person I wanted to talk to after tournaments… after that first exhibition match at Cohens when I threw ura nagi with NO experience with it as a throw… and after my last Wisconsin tournament, when I tied for first.  For me, Mom was the only person I could talk in detail with about the shit I did… whether it was judo or soccer, my phd, crafts. That is probably the hardest thing about her being gone… she cared about the mundane shit I did every day, and the big shit I did. And she was so proud of me.

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I had a weird moment earlier this month.  I was taken aback looking at some of Nico’s classwork; he’s been working on a story in his writing class. It’s about soccer and my mom would have absolutely loved it.  She would have asked him question after question after question about his process and everything about it. And he would have been tickled over that.  Like wow… Granny was really into my story, right?  Which would have been 100% true.

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