When Love Has a Place to Rest

 

There are moments in grief that feel bigger than you expect them to.

Today was one of those moments.

Standing there looking at my mom’s stone, I realized something I wasn’t prepared for — how strange it feels for love so big to suddenly have a place attached to it. A place with grass and trees and dates carved into stone.

Because moms aren’t supposed to fit into stone.

They’re supposed to be phone calls, advice you didn’t ask for, favorite recipes, random memories that hit you in grocery store aisles, and the voice in your head reminding you to bring a jacket.

Her stone isn’t perfect yet. There are still things being fixed and replaced. But grief isn’t perfect either.

And maybe that’s why today mattered.

Because even through the imperfections, what stood out wasn’t the stone itself — it was the words:

“Her love lives on in her children.”

And it does.

In the way I parent.
In the stories I tell.
In the parts of me that still sound like her.
In the love that keeps showing up, even now.

Today wasn’t really about a headstone.

It was about seeing proof that a life this loved leaves something behind.

And she did. ❤️