More x 12.

It's close to 8. 

As I'm writing, I'm enjoying this gorgeous evening; it's still warm outside although the clouds have stolen the last few minutes of the day's light. The smell of chlorine wafts on the faint breeze as the kids splish-splash and giggle... they're working hard to get themselves extra tired before waking up to another busy summer's day.

"Look at me, I'm a dolphin!" Mads directs Jimmy as she glides through the water. She is quite the actress, that's for sure. She is so creative and funny, sensitive and thoughtful, but boy can she be feisty. Sounds like her GeeGee, doesn't it?

And your grandson, the one who kicked my belly to remind me life was meant to go on while I was watching you float into what comes next... well, he is in his "pee corner" in the yard - guess we gotta give him props for not going in the pool. Ha. He surely must have some of that resourcefulness you did. 

I can't help but glance over to the lights just beyond the golf course and think of us gathered around you in your last few hours. The 12th anniversary of the worst moment of my life is upon us in just mere minutes now. Those lights in the distance are oddly comforting to me - on June 24th and the other 364 days of the year. And each year, on this particular date, I tell myself I won't cry, but my eyes are leaky anyways. Oh well, I tried. 

The kids and I talked about you so much today. How if you wrote your own eulogy you would have told people that M&M's really DO melt in your hand and that you should put them in a plastic up and "drink" them instead. How we should all stop crying because it made our faces puffy and no amount of Cover Girl Pressed Powder would be able to cover that up. How if you like something, buy three identical ones of it. How to not save the Chanel No. 5 for "special occasions" because we need to find the everyday special occasions. How when there was lightning, you would turn on Tom Skilling and not let us shower until the storm passed. So much of who you are is instinctively and organically part of who we are.

You have taught me that no words should be left unspoken. And while it wasn't always easy finding my voice again, it is easy to live authentically and I know you'd be proud. 

I took a play from the Ma Playbook you wrote, and had a heart to heart with Jimmy while I was driving. It didn't hit me until literally today that you used to do this to me because 1) As a preteen, I could talk and not have to look at you if the topic was uncomfortable and 2) I was too lazy to walk, so I was stuck talking about whatever topic you turned down WGN 720 to discuss. Well played, Ma, well played. Today, as Jimmy and I were driving along I said, "I just wish she was here so she could see me, finally me, finally happy," to which he replied "She does see, Mama. She does. I believe that."

I do too, Buddy.

Tonight, we toasted you at a beautiful outdoor dinner and visited the flower park. Mads held my hand while we were walking to your stone and Jimmy noticed the gorgeous fresh flowers Papa left for you today. We hugged and they told me "it's alright, Mama." 

And it is. 

So while they swam this evening and I wrote, the cardinal bird who camps out in the yard sings overhead and sure as shit, thunder starts to rumble out of nowhere. I had a momentary flashback of you running out of the Waverly house screeching "beep, beep, beep," and we quickly closed the pool up for the night. Mads refused to hop in the shower because of the lightning outside and protested loudly at the audacity of the suggestion.

I guess it all really does come full circle. 

I love you, Ma. More.