Every year, for at least the last several, by this date I'm done.  I'm just so fucking over the last 364 days that I cannot wait for this shit to be finished.  It's so easy to look back at the year, through the recent magnified lens of holiday angst and see all of the things left fucked up, unfinished, undone, or just not gone right.

The past week social media has been flooded with "fun" posts of the "list one thing you're proud to have accomplished this year" or "what's your happiest memory of 2018" variety.  And every time I scroll across one I sit and think.  And ponder.  And strain.  This year has been so awful, on so many levels, and for so many reasons that I have to truly struggle to think of ANY good things.

So, given my general end of year attitude, right now would normally be the time I am beyond ready to tack a new number onto the date.  The hell with 2018.  Burn it with fire, bury it in a shallow grave, whatever, just get it the fuck away from me.

Only...

Firsts are hard.  So are lasts.  I hate this year.  So much.  There are not words for how much.  But it's the last one I had with my mom.  And that makes me want to cling to this thing that I loathe, like it's a life raft that could, that might, keep my head above water.  Sitting trapped in this too quiet house, feeling the minutes ticking away, I know time does not operate on my whims.  I wish it did.  That it could.  If there was deity who could be swayed, I would beg for a do-over of this year.  Even if the outcome had to be the same.  I'm not ready for it to be 2019.  It's not a first that I want.  But I know, like with so many other painful things, that there is no choice to be made.

I don't know what this is

I've spoken a lot about my grandmother on this (very long neglected) blog.  I think, mainly, because she was so influential to my gardening and crafty sides.  And because, even more than twenty years later, I still miss her all the time.

And while you (assuming there is a you, there might not be, and that's okay, most of this is just words I need to pry out of my head anyway), at this point, might think you have a pretty good idea of who my grandmother was, I don't think you know my mom much at all.  I've only given you snippets of her.  And while I want to clutch every memory of her tightly to me, I also feel the need to share.  To make you, possibly imaginary reader, understand how amazing she was.  And how lost I am right now without her.

She's the one who made me want to write, and she is the editor in my head.  Her obituary was the hardest thing I've ever written.  Because she wasn't there to tell me what she wanted.  Because she wasn't there to be my sounding board.  Because she wasn't there to be my proofreader.  Because she wasn't there.

I was trying to write two different things at once.  My heart and brain were at war.  But I needed to say both.

If you want to see the official copy, that's here.

 This is its other half:

Mother, sister, daughter, friend
Grandma, cousin, aunt, wife
Great grandmother, great aunt
Great

Called mom by more than she raised
Called grandma by more than blood

Both the whirlwind, and the tree that can bend but will not break
It's almost fitting that you left this world during a windstorm

Rest, if you want to.  Raise hell if you don't.   Visit me sometimes if you can.   And if not, I will see you when I see you.   Love you, mom.   Say hi to everybody for me.  Can't wait to hear all of your new stories,  I'll be trying my damndest to acquire more of my own to share.
Until we're together again.