Four Years For Mom July 15 2025

 Four Years For Mom

For Mom – July 15, 2025

It’s been four years since my mom left this world.
Four years since I last saw her curled up in that red plaid blanket, hands wrapped around her old glass Christmas mug—the one with the winter scene I remember from childhood. Small and see-through, like it was never meant to last this long. But it did. Just like she did.

She was strong.
Stronger than anyone really knew.

She didn’t show weakness. I only saw her cry a couple of times in my whole life—and even then, it was when she thought I couldn’t see. She carried so much, silently, with a kind of grace that didn’t ask for recognition. She just kept going. Through everything. For all of us.

Coffee in the morning.
Tea in the afternoon.
Coffee again before bed—because she liked it that way, and who was going to tell her otherwise?

Sometimes she’d make a fried egg sandwich, with her glass of milk. It wasn’t a big moment, but it mattered. Everything she did was like that—quiet, steady, full of care.

Of course, she had fire in her, too.
I have her temper—I know that now.
We had our fights over the years. Some hard ones. We were too alike in some ways, and it showed. But under all of that was a bond that didn’t break, even when we bumped heads. We loved each other through it. And even now, I’d give anything to have one more argument with her, just to hear her voice.

She was the strongest woman I’ve ever known.
She faced down life’s hardest things with a stubborn kind of courage. Even when cancer came, she didn’t crumble. She held her head high. Quiet, proud, and still looking out for everyone else.

Now, when I drink tea, I think of her.
When I wrap a blanket around me, I think of how she’d always fold that red plaid one just so.
When I lose my patience, I think, There she is again. That’s her fire in me.

Four years have passed.
But her presence hasn’t faded.
It’s in the scent of coffee.
It’s in the warmth of memory.
It’s in the parts of me I used to fight but now hold with pride.

She was strong.
She was fierce.
She was home.

And today, like every day, I carry her with me—grateful, aching, and loving her still.


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