Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Today would have been my Mother’s 106th birthday. She died in 1996, so I’ve had ample time to get over her passing.

What I’m missing is that Mother’s younger sister, Alice, and I would always reminisce about her on her birthday. Both of us cared for Mother as she was dying, but our relationship predates that by decades.

Mother was difficult, and my aunt Alice and I were ardent supporters of each other when that was problematic. Today, I remembered my mother alone, as my aunt passed away on June 3.

I’m not particularly sentimental about a person’s passing, but not having Alice to call or email or laugh with or disagree with, is very strange. She died almost three weeks ago, but it seems as if she is still there. Except when we didn’t talk today, I realized she isn’t here anymore. And this is what missing someone means.