It has been three months since my mother died. Some days I feel like I should still call her, ask her about something, see how she’s doing. Other days it’s just an overwhelming sense of loss.

There is no magic cure all for grief. It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s a sense of relief that the pain and suffering are over and she is at peace. Other times there is regret, for her and for us. And then there’s just plain sadness – the hardest part.

Mom sometimes felt that she wasn’t very creative, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. There were always new hobbies to learn, solutions to problems pulled from the air, trips to plan, and parties to prepare for. I learned all of these things from her. She believed in the power of the written word, and never failed to send birthday, anniversary, and special occasion cards to those in her brown address book. I once told her that she could probably send an email or just make a phone call. “People like to get handwritten notes” was her response. I’d like to think that becoming a writer was one way to honor her writing tradition.

Missing you today, and every day, Mom.