Yesterday afternoon, while I was playing "Grow Old With Me" on the guitar, Mia pulled a falling-apart-album off the bookshelf of pictures from my wedding. I saw a candid picture of you and Susan hugging -- your eyes alert and bright and beautiful. And there you were in the family group shot with your radiant, gorgeous smile. Always classy, always timeless, always a beauty.
And then I came to a shot of me and you and my mom on the bench outside the Salt Lake Temple. There is a picture of us laughing together. And I am sitting in the middle, holding each of your hands, one on each side -- holding my mother's hand on my left, yours on my right. There is a picture of just our hands together -- a beautiful representation of the motherhood and strength that has been given to me and that I hold onto.
I stared at our hands and thought of the symbolism -- and the beauty and pain and simplicity it gives me now. I thought about putting it in Mia's room.
These days, every time I look at photographs of you or see your name, my heart drops.
I get frogs in my throat.
I wasn't ready to get off the train ride we were on, the era that has passed.
It was my turn to be voice in the prayer last night and I completely choked up and started crying. I'm so thankful that life goes on -- so thankful for the encouragement and love and making-me-feel-worthwhile you gave to me. And thankful for the knowledge that death can't separate us forever -- and I told the Lord all this.
And then I lay down in bed and read from your life story you wrote and felt strengthened by your own words of testimony and encouragement. I love reading about your life. You were such a poetic person and admirer/appreciator of beauty. I hope you know how much both of those things bloomed continually in you.
I miss you just about every day.
Thursday, February 18, 2010