One Year

You died on a Wednesday around 4pm. We knew the time was near - you had stopped eating and were hardly awake. Cancer had taken everything away. That afternoon, one year ago, you told Pap to sit with you and hold your hand. When you grew tired, you told him to go and rest. You closed your eyes and drifted away - the way you wanted to. No fuss. You left a huge hole in our family. I see you in every corner of my house. I think of you every day and wonder what we would be talking about if you were still here. It isn't fair. We want you here with us. We want your mountains of chocolate chip cookies in their perfect circles. We want your raviolis, shells, and hat soup. We want your kisses and hugs, and constant positive attitude. It isn't fair. You used to buy me pasta sauce that "was close to yours" that I could "use in a pinch" and when I ran out, I cried at the grocery store when I realized I had to buy Ragu for those nights I don't have time. We had no idea how much you took care of us as the matriarch of our family. Today we will be sad - like we are every day since you were gone, but today I make you a promise. That from now on, when I think of you - it will be only with smiles and laughter. We will remember everything you meant to us. I know this is what you would have wanted.