I Carry Her, and I Continue

In honor of my mother, whose presence left my sight, but not my life.

I Carry Her, and I Continue

In honor of my mother, whose presence left my sight, but not my life.

Many have done it, and many more will do it, but for me, facing life without my mother has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in this life. To say I miss her is less than genuine. To say that I love her is empty. To say how much she meant to me falls on deaf ears. Thirty-two years later, all of those words are still true. I still feel the weight of her absence.

Yes, the pain has lessened. Yes, I have learned to live without her, and yes, I have truly learned to live, not fake my existence. I live on her words, her teachings, her foundation, her legacy, and her spiritual guidance. She left me everything I needed. I sit here today, November 29, 2025, and remember.

I remember her struggle, her zest for life, her contagious spirit and love for others, that twinkle in her eye when she was up to mischief, and that little wink when she felt that she had pulled it off. She was unforgettable. I miss my sous chef in the kitchen during the holiday season, and oh, that pecan pie she would make just for me.

Today, many years ago, my mother, Florence Henrietta Brown Williams, took her last breath and moved on. No more cares, no more struggle, no more Alzheimer's, no more warmth, no more smiles showing that gold tooth of which she was so proud. My mother was gone from her body. Her spirit had escaped, and the wait for eternity had begun. That was the day my world shifted.

Yesterday, for just a few moments, my heart and soul reached a level of depression that was akin to the day she died in 1993, and I felt some terror in my heart and brain that frightened me considerably, but it passed. Today, I do not feel joy, but I also do not feel terror, pain, incredible anxiety, or even that hollow, missing thing that lingers when everything else is gone. It is not peace. Still, it is a quiet acceptance of her being gone, and this day symbolizes that for me. Acceptance is its own kind of survival.

Mother, I am okay. I am not in my best place, but I am in a good and safe space. Thank you for bringing me into this world and giving me my life. Thank you for your love and guidance for more than forty-seven years. You wore some very big shoes, and even today, they still do not fit me very well, but know this: I am wearing them. I walk because you walked first.

Happy Transition Day. You are loved. You are never forgotten.

Thank you for reading this piece. Each year since my mother's passing, I have tried to write something in her honor. This is my piece for this year. I carry her, and I continue.