Wish You Were Here

Four days after my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor, I got a box in the mail from her.  You read that correctly.  No need to reread that sentence.  I had known the box would be coming but would never have guessed I would get it after she died.  Frankly I wasn't really thinking about it at this point in the process either.  The last time I visited Mom she had a list of things to do before she would allow herself to take her last breath.  One of the most important tasks to her was to purchase three necklaces, each with a silver cross.  One for me, my sister and my step-sister.

I opened the box and noticed Mom and Neal had sent my step-sister's necklace with mine.  A completely sensible thing to do since we live mere minutes from one another.  I felt like I should wait to open the box with Laura but could not contain my emotion and opened it by myself in my kitchen.  I was overcome by the simple beauty of the cross and what it represented to my mom and found myself crying as I drove West to Laura's house.  I apologized to Laura for my lack of patience as I held my hand over my necklace as she opened her box.

As I mentioned before, I was aware the box would be coming.  What I was not prepared for was the note that accompanied the box.  There were two notes actually.  One note to "the girls" from my mom and another to the doctors and nurses that cared for her.  I was able to contain myself at my place and waited to read them with Laura.  We sat together, now in her kitchen, and read the message she sent to us and the message of gratitude to the caregivers that gave us two more years with her.

For my country music fan friends, this story might remind you of a song by Mark Wills called Wish You Were Here:

Wish you were here, wish you could see this place
Wish you were near, I wish I could touch your face
The weather's nice, it's paradise
It's summertime all year and there's some folks we know
They say, "Hello, I miss you so, wish you were here"

My mom may not be here any longer in the physical form, but I know she is still here.  The cross I wear around my neck reminds me of her but even without it she is with me.  Everywhere.