That next week I'll celebrate my 67th birthday. The first birthday that I won't be celebrating with my mom.
Won't be receiving a sweet, funny card from her.
Won't get to hear her sing Happy Birthday to me over the phone a dozen times - each time more hysterical than the time before.
That she won't be giving me a little gift in the most bedraggled birthday bag you've ever seen, but one neither of us could bear to part with until maybe "next year."
That I won't get to feel her put her arms around me and tell me she loves me and then stand back and smile at me with that mischievous little twinkle that she always had in those eyes of hers.
And I won't be able to say "I love you, Mom."