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The fifth Mother’s Day without you

Some years, Mother’s Day feels like a speed bump. Others, it is Everest.

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There is a laundry list of important people my mom will never meet. My editor. My new PCP. My live-in boyfriend and love of my life. Our new cat. His family. My new favorite barista. And so on.

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The first year without her

The first month feels like a year, and then a week, and then a year again. A cold, long, drawn out year with no seasons, and no clocks.The first few days are as cold as ice; way too chilly for Columbus Day Weekend. You stop crying, and you start cracking smiles at small talk but […]

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My mother hated tattoos, so naturally I got one for her

“Months are different in college, especially freshman year. Too much happens. Every freshman month equals six regular months—they’re like dog months.” – Rainbow Rowell A lot happens your freshman year of college. It’s one of those years you learn who you are, what you’re made of and, in most cases, the art of laundry. For me, […]

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There are more important things in life than what your ex is doing on Facebook

There are more important things in life than what your ex is doing on Facebook. There are more important things in life than what that girl wore to EDC, or that she went at all. There are more important things in life than a brand new Michael Kors watch. There are more important things in life […]

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The first Mother’s Day without you

This morning, I heard your laugh. Six and a half months later and the Alex and Ani website still has the matching Leukemia bracelets I was going to buy us in my shopping cart. I can’t bring myself to take them out. I won’t get to see you Sunday, not even your gravesite. Staten Island […]

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What it’s like pocket-dialing a dead parent and being emotionally triggered by Five Guys

Update: Four months since this was published and I’m still emotionally triggered by Sister Act. Death is kind of like a bad break-up. There’s a lot of ugly crying, fetal position dry heaves, binge drinking and subsequent after-hours spent reaching for the phone. The only difference is that, this time, there’s no chance of reconcile in the corner of a […]

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Sometimes I forget she died

Sometimes I forget she died and it’s not until I stop everything I’m doing that I remember she did. It’s not until I see the president speak, work sixteen hours straight or consider ordering French Onion Soup. It’s not until I find that emory board she was always looking for or the wedding pictures I never […]

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A letter from my mother to my mother at age thirteen

“Luv ya, myself” gets me every time (and I have no idea who Rita is).

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