365

A year ago yesterday, I had a stupid phone conversation with my mom, about girls I knew in high school that she'd reconnected with on Facebook. We talked as I walked home from work, enjoying some spring sunshine and my new-job commute, which took 20 minutes on foot. Our conversation, like most of them, was rambling and mostly pointless. We talked often, so it's not like either of us had tons of news to catch up on.

A year ago today, my mom died. Until just recently, I'd file away some silly or stupendous or just out-of-the-ordinary parts of my day, thinking I should call my mom and tell her about them. She'd have loved my new job. She'd have been excited with me about the installation of new windows in my apartment. She'd have enjoyed my tales of Spring Training. And then I'd be startled to realize that if I called, there'd be nobody on the other end of the phone.

Her death ripped a huge hole in my heart, and in my life. The past year has been the hardest I've ever had, and hopefully the hardest I'll ever have to endure. But it's also brought with it some pretty awesome things: a terrific job; good friends; a ton crazy good (and bad) experiences; and the knowledge that, having survived this year, I can conquer anything.

While I'd give all this up without a second thought to have my mom back, I can't. And I've spent a lot of the past few weeks thinking about that. I can't change anything about the past year. I can't bring back my mom. But I've got the opportunity to take these awful experiences and use them to make myself a better person, and maybe to improve my world a little. And that's the greatest legacy my parents could ask for.