This is a picture of my mom. I lost her to Ovarian Cancer on October 19th when I was only 5 years old. She was only 37. I have spent the greater portion of my life trying to force every part of me to not lose my memories of her. Her voice, her hair, her contagious laugh, and her fierce love for me and my sister.
Because I was so young, my memories are limited. Sometimes I don’t know if what I remember is real or something I created based on what others told me or just being a child with an imagination.
My mom died young and I wish I had more photos of her.
I rely so much on pictures of her to help keep her with me. But, unfortunately, I have only a handful of pictures of her. Most are posed, and only a few are really candid. I treasure these pictures to the point that if my house were to catch on fire, it is the one thing (aside from my family) that I would try to take with me.
I am now 32, and have a two-year-old son of my own. I find myself exceedingly more anxious the closer I get to 37. Anxious that I might meet the same fate, leaving my child the same way I was left. Anxious that I may actually outlive my mother — a thought that makes me feel physically ill. And anxious that I haven’t done enough to ensure my child will remember me.
