Everyone has is a list of firsts.
First steps.
First birthdays.
First words.
And then there is a list of firsts I had to plow through by myself.
First love.
First heartbreak.
First day of high school.
First acceptance letter.
And another list she should be apart of.
Prom Night.
Senior Recognition.
Graduation Day….

As the school year comes closer to an end, my mother is nowhere in sight. It’s been six or seven years since she passed away; I don’t keep count. They all drag on the same. My life continues, events and accomplishments happen without her congratulations or her smile. There’s a lot to be said about me going on, growing on, without her.

“You’re strong,” they say.

“You have such a future,” they continue.

All these people, all these words. And I’m proud, proud of whom I’ve become and proud of the path I’m walking along. I’m going to go to college at my dream school, the University of Iowa, I’m going to be a novelist. When I come back, I’m going to live in San Antonio, and maybe even Hawaii for a month in the summer.

There are all these goals, all these plans, and my mother isn’t by my side. It’s my last year before my life truly begins, and it hurts knowing that all these girls around me have a mom that’s going to be waving and cheering when they walk across the stage.

I find myself becoming more and more like her every day and every hour. I look in the mirror and I see her nose, her smile, the shape of her eyes. I use to struggle; use to want nothing to do with her. I use to want to be completely, one hundred percent, me. But the funny thing is, I’ve gotten more from my mother than her genetics, as much as I want to deny. I’ve got her sense of humor, her love of books, her talent at writing and some of her dreams too. She’s not here, not where I can see and hug her, but she’s apart of me and she always will be. I use to resent that, but now I know it’s a good thing because I have her strengths too.

It’s okay that she won’t be there. It’s okay that she can’t tell me whether blue or green eye shadow works with my outfit. It’s okay that she can’t hug me tight when I drive out of state.

The reality is that she’s with me, apart of me, and always will be.

And that’s okay.