I am missing my mom so much today. I mean, there's no big surprise there, right? Some days it's purely intellectual; I wish I could talk to her about her birth experiences, I think about how I can integrate her name into this boy's name, et cetera. Today it's fully stop-and-cry emotional. I just want my mom. I want her to know what we're doing, what I'm doing. And I know some people would say that she does know. But I personally do not believe in that. I mean, it's fine when people say that to me; I just gain no comfort from it. So here I am, made my bed, sleeping in it.
Here's a passage from "A Prayer for Owen Meany," one of her favorite books (and from her actual copy of it, which I keep on the mantle so I can flip to the inside cover to see her "N. Lam 1/93" written inside):
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time -- the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes -- when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever -- there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.