She never knew.

Was incapable of knowing, believing. Her whole life, my mother waited to be abandoned. She could only see her own flaws and assumed that’s all anyone else could see too. It made her defensive. Sometimes it made her hard to be around. But it taught me compassion, empathy. It never drove us away, and on her last day of this life, there was a room full of love and laughter and tears, and her hand was always in another’s. She would have expected to be forgotten after death as she always expected to in life, but you can spot her stone from across the cemetery. Balloons swayed in the breeze in the weeks around her birthday and Mother’s Day. Bright flowers and solar butterflies brightened it all summer and fall. It stands out in the snow with a big red bow and candy canes and greenery now. I even have a piece of her here with the wind-chime I go out and stand next to when it’s singing sometimes just to say hello and enjoy the breeze together like we did that last day we sat outside. I hope she can see. I hope now she can believe. As long as we live, so will she.