but death is so final.  I still think about it from time to time, and the thing that strikes me is that I no longer have a mom.  Even in the state that she was in, she was just there, someone thinking about me, on whatever level she could.  And now she’s not.

Maybe part of me always wondered What if, and Maybe…two dangerous things.  Part of it could be because something all the adults gave us when we were 6 and 9 was hope–and we all know that hope was all that was left in Pandora’s box when she finally closed it after releasing all the evil and hate into the world.

I have a bad relationship with hope.  I’m bitter about the dozens of birthday wishes wasted on hoping Mom would “get better,” when I think everyone around me knew it would never happen.  Hope that one day she would just be able to talk–nothing more–if only I could hear her voice again.

It’s hard to look at the pictures–all the ones I have are from when we were kids, when she was well and a person.  I think I had one picture from when I went to the Philippines last, and I “lost” it–we all know there’s no such thing as an accident.

The one thing that brings me peace at this moment is the idea that perhaps now she can see and hear me, us, her granddaughter, and not have to resign herself to mere thoughts and pictures.