Holding Space for My Cousins and My Aunt on the Eve of Loss

Tonight, on the eve of my mother's anniversary, she passed away March 6,2022, 3 years ago. My heart is heavy, not just with my own grief, but with theirs. My cousins Steve and Challice along with their mom my Aunt Lynn, are preparing for a day they never wanted to face, the funeral of their father, my Uncle Bill. My mother's little brother. Her best friend. Her favorite person. And as I sit here in Michigan, miles away from them in California, I ache knowing that I can't be there to stand beside them, to hug them, to share in this moment of grief the way family should.

The pain tonight is deep, layered, and relentless. It is the weight of missing my mother, of marking another year without her, of feeling the familiar ache that never fully fades. It is the heartbreak of knowing that while I sit with my own loss, my cousins and my aunt are just beginning to navigate theirs. It is the helplessness of distance, of knowing that no text, no call, no words can replace simply being there. I want to hold their hands, to cry with them, to share stories in person, but all I can do is sit here, carrying this grief from afar.

My mother and their father grew up side by side, shaping each other's stories long before we were ever part of them. She told me so many stories about him, stories that made her eyes light up, that made her laugh, that made me understand just how much she adored him. And someday, when the time is right, I will tell my cousins those stories. I will help keep his memory alive for them the way my mother kept it alive for me.

For now, all I can do is share what I have. I have videos, when he came to Michigan, moments of him that I will upload and send their way, little glimpses of the man their father was beyond just the one they knew. It's not enough. It will never be enough. Because what I want, more than anything, is to be there. To sit with them, to hold their hands, to be part of this moment in person rather than just in heart. And it hurts, deeply, knowing that I can't

But even from across the country, I hope they feel my love. I hope they know that they are not alone, that they are surrounded by the unbreakable bond of family.

Tomorrow will be painful for me as I mourn another year that my mom is gone. But, Friday will be painful for them, for me, for everyone who loved him. But in the end, love is what remains. Love is what carries us through grief, through distance, through the years that stretch between loss and healing. And tonight, in my pain, in my longing to be there, that love is what I hold onto.

I Love you Steve, Challice and Aunt Lynn. All of you and your familes will be in my thoughts. I will always be here for you all. Just remember your dad and my mom are together again, dancing and laughing. Love, Mickey.