I have many regrets when it comes to my mother. I regret leaving her when I was 16; actually, I regret leaving every time I did. I regret not telling her every chance I had that I loved her. I regret not hugging her more. I regret not taking more photos of and with her, to preserve her memory. I regret not working harder, in every aspect of my life, to make her proud. I took her for granted, and now she’s gone.
Ever since the day she died, people have been telling me that it’s just going to take time. Time to heal, time to feel normal again. Though it’s barely been 6 months, I still don’t believe it. Every time something happens in my life, whether it be good or bad, I still pull my phone out to call her.
It’s her birthday today, she would have been 50-something. Even though she’s gone, I’m sure she would still find a way to punish me for giving away her age haha. I would have taken her out to dinner, probably to her favorite Pho restaurant. I would have bought her flowers, probably would have bought her more turquoise jewelry that she didn’t need. We would have laughed at whatever shitty present her husband bought her, because he was the absolute worst at giving gifts to her. Instead, I sit here and remember times we’ve shared. I try to remember advice that she’s given me. I try to remember plans that we’ve made.
I often find myself trying to compare myself to her. In what ways am I like her? I know for certain, I am stubborn just like her. I want things my way, and often won’t stray from that. Though our sense of fashion was far from similar, we were both very into our looks. I remember spending hours in that damned closet of a store in downtown Juneau. Kimberly’s Closet. My mother loved to look her best, from her hair, to her clothes to her nails. I’m more casual, but I love to spend money on hoodies, and sneakers. Our sense of style definitely represent ourselves, and I think my mother taught me that. I know she wished that I would have dressed more like a lady, instead of a pre-pubescent boy. I also know for a fact, that my sense of music is directly derived from her. I remember my mom blasting music in the truck. Gypsy Kings, Bonnie Raitt, BB King, later it would be P!nk and Lady Gaga. As an adult, I find myself in love with the music I was raised on. I feel kind of silly, listening to the Gypsy Kings, considering I haven’t the slightest idea what they’re saying. I’m always drifting toward new artists, singing songs that remind me of her, and then I find myself in tears.
I guess this post is a long, drawn out way of saying, Mom, I miss you. I’ll never forget you. I love you. Happy Birthday.
This song really doesn’t have much to do with my feelings toward my mother, it’s just a song with a little bit of her, and a little bit of me, put together.