Maybe It’s Her

The other day I walked into a store and, without warning, I remembered being eight or nine, standing beside my mom as we looked at notebooks, or walked the aisles of a local shop just to pass the time. Other times, it’s the image of us sharing a snack mid-afternoon, no particular occasion, just two lives brushing softly against the day.

These memories keep coming lately. They arrive uninvited, not tied to a smell or a sound or even a specific place. They just appear. Out of nowhere. And I’ve started to think—maybe it’s her.

After she died, I had one dream. Just one. A dream in which we said goodbye. I haven’t dreamt of her since, and sometimes that silence feels loud. But then these memories appear, crisp and clear, as if they were waiting for the right time to resurface. And in those moments, I feel her. Not like before, not physically—but in a way that’s just as real.

Grief is strange that way. It folds time, rearranges it. These flashes of the past, rather than pulling me away, bring me deeply into the now. They remind me that what I do today will live on in the hearts of my children. That a shared laugh, a simple snack, a small gesture of presence—they’ll remember it all. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday, and probably in a moment just like this one.

So I make the snack. I create the outing. I cook with them and let the kitchen get messy. Because even if she’s not here, my mom is helping me mother. That’s what it feels like. That her love didn’t stop—it transformed.

Maybe these memories are gifts. Maybe they’re guides. I don't try to analyze them too much. I just try to listen, to stay present. To honor what they bring.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like—not the absence of sadness, but the gentle return of presence. The kind that whispers: “You’re not alone. I’m still here.”

With all my heart,
Virginia