August 29, 2006: My mother passes away after a thankfully short battle with Small-Cell Lung Cancer. She never got to see me publish an article on living with Asthma at an online magazine, a war she helped make sure I was properly treated to survive. She never got to see this website. She never got to see me start teaching children about America’s history. On August 29, 2016, I’m writing a sentimental piece because I don’t know what else to do.
I suspect that time has healed this wound. When I visited her grave today, where my grandmother was all-too-recently interred to rest with her husband who went there when I was young, I said my prayers with a level of acceptance that she is gone and that her pain is over. She struggled raising a child who was often sick, mildly learning-disabled, and occasionally prone to foolish decisions. She had a loving husband and a supportive family around me, which I’m constantly thankful for because there’s really too many people who unfortunately don’t have my luck in that area. When I was at the grave, I felt pain; my fiancee hugged me and I felt better. I visited her parents as well (They’re down the street a few rows at this cemetery), offered my well wishes, then went off. We went to a nearby Nathans; not the one my mom took me to when I was little, the one I would later take her to as we tried to convince her to eat in spite of her sickness, and while I felt tears well up when a song about childhood came on the radio I fought them back and felt alright.