She should be here

I knew I would get personal and private on this blog at some point, but it's still scary to really just go there, ya know?

Well, my first pre-move meltdown just took place.

I'm in the midst of bringing paint cans for night one of House Preparation this week to my car, to join the huge amount of cleaning supplies that have been teetering in between my CDs and work 'emergency kit' of warm-weather clothing, notebooks and pens when it happened.

I just thought of my mom. Pretty typical, really, now that I'm in the middle of a pretty big moment in my life and all. But I needed to see her, and since that hasn't been possible in 14 and a half years, I wanted to see a picture of her, and not just any picture. THE picture that I love and adore and had on my desk for a while now. My mom's sister sent it to me and said that it was how she remembered my mom -- red 80s jumpsuit, shiny blond hair and a brilliant smile. It's better than the sick, thin, angry mom I knew as a young girl.

The problem is I packed the picture already.

I tried to talk myself through the moment but I realized there are some things you just can not fight. One of those things is your heart. So, I went to the garage, created a path through the boxes, bags and piles of items we've packed up and found the box with the picture in it. It's back on my desk, where it should be. And now, I can pack the paint and some snacks for us all up and get ready to go to our home.

But one thing is still missing. And it always is. She should be here.

But maybe that longing I felt in my heart was her saying she is here, admiring our paint colors, laughing at the former owner's Archie Bunker living room furniture and wondering which room will be the nursery for her grandchildren.

Maybe she is here after all, as hard as it is to believe sometimes.