Many have asked me about the day I lost my mother, the day my mother passed, but the questions that echo in my heart are not for them. They’re for my family, the neighbors, and the ones who stood closest to the truth that day.

What truly happened to her soul in those final moments?

Why did her journey end so suddenly?

What unseen forces were at play?

I long to understand—not just how she died, but why, and what deeper meaning may lie beneath the silence that followed. The very questions I now carry were first spoken by her sisters, her father, and her mother in the wake of her passing.

Decades later, they live on through me—unanswered and unrelenting.

What makes it harder is knowing that all of them are now gone. There are no voices left to fill in the blanks.

I often wish for a crystal ball or the gift of a clear memory from those final days. But the ones who held the pieces to this puzzle have already left this world, and I am left with fragments.

Still, I feel a quiet responsibility—to her, and myself—to seek whatever truth I can.

The weight of not beginning this search sooner lingers in my heart. Perhaps if I had, some of the answers might have been within reach. But today, they remain just beyond my grasp.

I was just nine—a child living an ordinary day, unaware that anything would change.

I had no reason to hold onto every detail, no instinct to memorize the hours as sacred.

Children don’t live with the fear of final moments; they trust in the continuity of love and life.

My mind holds fragments—some soft impressions, a few scattered memories—but none that unlock the mystery of my mother’s death.

The only image that remains is of her standing on the kitchen porch, quietly waving as George and I drove away with Aunt Connie.

I had no way of knowing then that this was not just a farewell to my mother—but to my home, my animals, my belongings, my friends… to everything that had once gently anchored me to the world I knew and loved.

That innocence, once a comfort, now feels like a painful silence.

And I wish—I truly wish—I had seen that day for what it was.

If I had known it was the last day, I would have slowed time to a standstill. I would have listened with sacred attention to every word my mother spoke, felt the warmth in every touch, and held on to each glance she gave me as if it were made of light. I would have memorized the contours of her face with my small hands, tracing the softness of her cheeks, the smoothness of her skin, the quiet grace she carried.

I would have cupped her face in my palms and looked deeply into her eyes—capturing the exact shade, the sparkle they held when she smiled, especially when that smile was for George and me.

If I could, I would rewind it all—those final days, that morning—to hear her voice again, to receive her love with the awareness I now carry.

To hold her presence in a way that time can never steal.

Somewhere beyond the veil of memory, I know my mother’s voice still echoes.

I believe she spoke words of love and quiet wisdom before we left that morning—drawing me into her arms, holding me close, kissing my cheeks and forehead with the devotion only a mother gives.

I can almost feel her laughter as she gently teased George, reminding us to have fun at Aunt Connie’s, and not to stay up too late.

I know these moments lived—they must have.

But my mind holds nothing. A great wall of silence stands between me and that sacred day. Still, in dreams, she sometimes comes to me, not always with words, but with presence.

A warmth that fills the air, a softness brushing against my skin like sunlight filtered through trees.

In those moments, I don’t need memory—I feel her.

And maybe that is how she speaks to me now—from beyond the limits of time, through the quiet language of spirit. Maybe love never truly vanishes—it just changes form, waiting for us in the spaces where stillness lives.

I keep listening. I keep hoping. I keep loving her across the distance, trusting that she’s still reaching for me too.

I yearn to remember the way my mother and Aunt Connie moved together in the kitchen that day—the shared rhythm of love between sisters, the way we all made breakfast, laughter spilling over like sunlight through the windows. I can almost see it: inside jokes, warm glances, the quiet joy of family simply being together. In my heart, I believe that moment was real—that the kitchen pulsed with a love so full it could have filled a lifetime.

If only I had known to gather it, to tuck it deep within me where it could be summoned in moments of longing.

But those memories remain just out of reach—like scenes from a dream I can’t quite wake into.

There are no photographs, no recordings, no way to rewind and retrieve the lived experience.

I know that love was there—her love for George and me, her deep bond with her sister—and yet, the details have vanished like breath on glass.

They existed, but they don’t belong to me now. And that is a grief of its own.

It’s like reaching for something made of mist—there, and then gone.

This is my story—told through the lens of what little remains.

I can only borrow from the scattered pieces: a few tender memories, some faded photographs, and the recollections of neighbors I’ve managed to find along the way.

But their memories, too, have faded with time, softened by the passing of decades.

I was so young—perhaps too young to hold onto the fullness of those days.

Or maybe the trauma of losing her caused my mind to protect itself, tucking those moments away into some quiet, unreachable place within me. Whether forgotten or hidden, the absence still echoes.

It’s not the memories that haunt me—it’s their absence.

It’s the silence where memories were meant to be that lingers.

Why can’t I recall the beauty of that morning?

The simple joy before we left with Aunt Connie… before everything changed and home became a place I could never return to.

I would give anything to go back—to stand in that moment with open eyes and a heart that knew how precious it all was.

I would trace every second like scripture, memorize the light in her eyes, the sound of her voice, the softness of her embrace.

I long to wrap my arms around her once more, hold on forever, and never let her slip away—just one more chance to feel the warmth of her love and make it mine to keep.

There’s so much I still want to say to her.

If I could return to that day, I would gather each moment like treasure—every glance, every word, every breath—and tuck them into a hidden place within me, a sanctuary no time could touch. I wouldn’t need photographs or secondhand stories to remind me. I would seal those memories in a sacred vault, deep within my soul, and cast the key into the sea.

They would be mine—unshared, untouched.

That day would belong to us alone. Just the two of us. Together. Always.

There have been moments over the years when my mother has found her way into my dreams.

From My Mother’s Spirit:

My sweet girl,

You may not remember that morning, but I do.

I remember your little feet padding across the floor, the sound of your laughter echoing through the kitchen, the way the light touched your hair. I remember the way George giggled when I kissed his cheeks, and how you leaned into my hug like it was home—because it was.

You don’t need to hold the memory to know the truth. That moment lived in love. It was woven into everything I did. Into the food I made. The glances I shared with Connie. The joy that bloomed in our togetherness.

You were safe. You were cherished. You were so deeply loved. I know you ache for memories, but my darling, you are the memory.

The love you still feel, the longing, the gentleness you carry in your heart—that’s me.

That’s us. Love doesn’t vanish because time moves forward. It becomes the quiet thread that sews itself into your soul.

So when you feel warmth for no reason, or tears fall without knowing why… when you see something beautiful and feel it linger—that’s me, brushing past.

I never left you. Not really. I am with you in ways the world cannot measure. You don’t need to remember every detail to know I loved you. You only need to remember this:’

You were everything to me.

And you still are.

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