More.

 "More."

I've sat here and stared at this screen for a good twenty minutes thinking about how today marks the 9th anniversary of the last word my Ma spoke to me: "More."

"More." A tiny word with such astronomical implications. 

More money, more love, more happiness, more cookies, more sleep, more freedom, more memories, more days on this earth. I imagine this is just a simple list of what people want more of. I know what I wish I could have had more of: time. 

...

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, I have come to the realization that I am moderately good at a lot of things: teaching, essential oils, crafts, and being a good daughter and friend come to mind. Please don't correct me after reading this because it's simply reality - I'm just proficient in these things and that's okay with me- I've learned to embrace the "moderately good" parts of who I am.  I do like to think I am great at one thing, though, and that's being a Mom - because I learned from the best. When my kids come in from playing in the snow, I have a warm blanket straight from the dryer handy. When they snuggle in close, I ask them, "Are you snug as a bug in a rug?" When they least expect a surprise, one is awaiting them, just because. When they have a fever, I put a cool rag on their foreheads. Through all of this and so much more, they have learned who their GeeGee was, because it's more than imperative to me to keep her memory alive: something I will never stop doing for them, for me, and for anyone who ever loved her. 

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, nothing and everything has changed. There is a school of thought that speaks to the idea that grief gets easier; it doesn't. You just get different. I'm different. Dad's different. Jim's different. Jackie's different. 

I'm different in that I have learned to let go of what I cannot control.  Sure, I still am allowed a five minute meltdown sometimes, but then I force myself to accept whatever "it" is. I have learned that people will make choices I don't agree with, but it's not me who has to live with the consequence of those choices (although this is not entirely true - see my first sentiment).  I have learned that not everything will make sense, the triumphs and disappointments included. But the single biggest thing I have learned is that nothing will surpass the biggest disappointment of my life: that my Ma didn't get to spend time with her grandchildren, and that will never be different. That? That I will never accept. She deserved more. I deserved more. Jimmy and Maddy deserve more.

...

When I tell you, "I love you more," it's because I probably do... because I learned that from my Ma. To love hard and with everything you have, but not to forget where you came from, what you've been through, or those who have gone to the next place before you. When I tell you, "I love you more most," it's because I want you to shut up because I am right and you are wrong, something I also learned from my Ma. 

No one misses you Ma, more, than me.

Copyright 2021 More Seasoned Then • Dana Prezembel Hackett