Yesterday, August 2, was the 11th anniversary of my mom’s death.
11 years.
Pancreatic cancer took her when she was just 73 years old. Way too young.
But cancer does that, doesn’t it?
My dad had passed away from a heart attack just 16 months before, so now my siblings and I were orphans.
I wasn’t there when my mom breathed her last. My family and I had plane tickets to go see her just a few days later, but she was on the other side of the country, so nothing was 
going to happen quickly. My two sisters and my brother were all there, though.
They got me on the phone in her hospital room and put the phone to her ear. I could hear her heavy breathing. I told her not to wait 
for us. It was OK. She could go. We would be alright.
I tear up even now writing those words.
It wasn’t long after that and she was gone.
No more care packages in the mail for whatever reason. Or no reason.
No more phone calls just to see how we were.
She would miss Morgan’s first day of kindergarten. Justin’s first job. Nathan starting college. Weddings, babies, graduations. Her great grandchildren, whom she would have adored.
Miss you, Mom. It’s not the same without you.
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Compelled 