We drove across the country in 2013. We stopped at Wall Drug and bought a small white jackelope. We drove it to Ohio and gave it to my mom. She asked me for it. I thought she was kidding. But she wasn’t. And she put it on her book shelf in her bedroom and she loved it.
She passed away four months later. And now I have it on a shelf on my dresser. I think of her every time I look at it. And it makes me happy. I remember the ways she was cute and kid like and funny.
I don’t want to forget anything about her. It’s been nearly six years now. It still feels fresh and yet far away. So many things were different then. My life is so full now but there is still a space where my relationship with my mom was that feels missing.
It’s not that I don’t feel whole or complete. That’s not it. She’s just gone. And I feel it. In big ways and small ways.
And I’m grateful for the ways she is still present. Like the jackelope. And the silly dances I do and songs I sing. And the way that I gaze at my boys in complete awe of them. And how I push myself to be better and achieve my goals. And how I try to love others. She instilled those things in me. I have faith and hope and confidence and determination fueled by the love she gave.
Some might have fancier things on their dresser but I’m glad that little jackelope is around.
