Yesterday was Mom’s death anniversary.

You’d think that after all these years, grief would feel different. And in some ways, it does. Time has softened its sharpest edges, but it hasn’t taken away the longing. There’s still a feeling that a part of me is gone forever.

We went out for dinner at Yellowfin, one of Mom’s many favorite restaurants. It was also the first restaurant I ever treated her to.

I remember that day so clearly. I had a little extra money and asked her where she wanted to eat. Without hesitation, she said, “Yellowfin!” Then, a little tentatively, she asked if it was going to be my treat. It was.

She was so happy. Of course, she ordered all her favorites that day. It’s such a simple memory, but it’s one I treasure deeply now.

Every year, we usually make an effort to tell stories about her and share memories of her with my kids. I want them to know their grandmother through the stories we tell, the things she loved, the little habits we remember, and all the pieces of her that are still woven into our lives.

But yesterday, I was just sad.

I didn’t really want to say much. I just wanted to be allowed to miss my mom while we ate. There were still a few stories shared, but mostly, I sat quietly in the moment, simply being a daughter who misses her mother.

Grief is strange. As the years pass, everything connected to her seems to become more precious--even the most trivial things.

Mom once gave me a discontinued Corelle bowl. One day, someone in the house accidentally broke it. It sounds insignificant, but I remember sitting in a room and weeping inconsolably over it.

It wasn’t really about the bowl.

It was about the fact that it was hers-- something she had chosen and given to me. It belonged to a time when she was still here. When it broke, it felt as though I were losing another tiny piece of her.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m constantly grasping at snippets of her, trying to hold on to anything I can: a story, a photograph, something she gave me, a favorite restaurant, a familiar expression, or a memory that suddenly returns out of nowhere.

Anything that makes me feel as though I’m not losing more of her.

Maybe that’s what grief becomes over the years. You learn how to carry it. You learn how to live your life around the empty space. You laugh again, make new memories, celebrate milestones, and keep moving forward.

But there will always be certain days when you just want to stop and be the daughter who misses her mom.

Time makes the pain less sharp, but it doesn’t make the hole disappear.

There will always be a mom-shaped hole in my heart for my bff.

Perhaps the greatest comfort I have is knowing that God has taken her home. I believe this separation is not forever. One day, when my own journey here is done, He will take me home too, and I’ll get to see her again.

Until then, I’ll keep holding on to every little piece of her I have.

I miss you, Ma.

Always.