Sixteen Years

I couldn’t post the same pictures again. I just couldn’t.

Sixteen years, and my constant thought is that there just aren’t enough pictures of us together. There won’t ever be enough pictures of us together.

She would probably not love the idea of me posting some of these, she was her harshest critic.

You know what I would post, if I could?

Pictures of her with her head band on, cleaning the house, singing and dancing.

Pictures of her tackling yet another home project, DIY craft, and working the Art & Wine festival booth selling her creations.

Pictures of her and I cuddled on the couches watching TV after dinner.

Pictures of her sitting on the floor, because she’s laughing so hard that she had to sit to avoid peeing (those of you who were close to her know ).

Pictures of me in her bed early in the morning, watching as she sat at her vanity doing her make up, getting ready for work.

Pictures of her working in her yard.

Pictures of her on the couch, phone to her ear as she called her parents and best friends each day after work.

Pictures of her pulling yet another burnt loaf of bread from the oven.

Pictures of her decorating our house for the holidays.

None of them glamorous. Many of which I may have (now I’ll have to go look). Most of which she would never post if she had social media. But every one showing the beauty that made up my amazing mother.

Her hair would be messy. She’d be sweating. Red in the face with laughter. Taken at bad angles. The same exact worries we all have when someone snaps a picture of us and we follow it up with “Don’t you dare post that!”

But maybe... just maybe... let them. Because one day, there won’t be enough pictures.

Missing her today, and every day.

16 years.