When I was 8, my mom died. I'm told all the time I look just like her, and we have similar interests, like reading, gardening, and our love of dogs.
Courtesy Isabella Ambrosio
Suzanne had one of those laughs — the loud, sometimes too loud, cackle that would send her into a fit of snorts and wheezes. And her loud laugh matched her larger-than-life personality that lit up a room with her warm heart and personality. She was passionate, in both what she loved and what she argued. She was intelligent and read faster than anyone I have ever known. And that intelligence carved out her witty sense of humor, "quick as a whip," as stated by a childhood friend.
She was my mom, and I can't remember her as well as I would like to. I lost her 10 days before my 8th birthday, and I couldn't quite emotionally deal with her death until I turned 12 or 13. I just couldn't comprehend what it meant when someone died, let alone my own mother.
She was the woman who would iron my clothes religiously, put matching bows in my hair before school, and always put notes in my lunchbox. I remember how the notes started. I saw another child at lunch who would get notes, and I went home, sheepishly asking if my mom would do the same. I never had to ask again.
I was my mom's miracle baby. She struggled with pregnancies and had fully given up on trying to have a child. That's how it almost always works, right? My mom gave birth to me in January of 2001 and spent the next eight years showering me with so much love, attention, and sheer dedication that even 15 years later, I can still feel her love. When I talk about my mom, I don't cry because I'm sad and I miss her. I cry because it's so moving to physically be able to feel her love after all of this time, and I feel so lucky to experience that.
Her love and impact were so strong that I have grown up to be just like her. Her nephew, 12 years younger than her and over two decades older than me — someone whose fondest memories are with her — has emphasized that I look just like her. We make the same facial expressions, have a very similar laugh (snort and all), and even talk the same way at times. Her nephew laughed when recalling that the way I text reminded him of her. We look alike, we sound alike, we talk alike. I keep her memory alive just by being myself.
My love for books, reading, and writing came from her. She read to me every single night before bed — "Little House on the Prairie" was our favorite — and I found solace in writing after I lost her. It made me feel close to her. I have vivid memories of her gardening and love for flowers; I was even told that I hoard plants the same way she did (I've only just started not killing them, so my green thumb didn't come as naturally as hers did). Her love for dogs must also be genetic because it is a downright obsession for me. She was an incredible cook; quite a few of my memories of her surround food, and one of my favorite parts of my day is making dinner.
I have grown up to be so much like her, but I am also my own person with my own experiences. It's something special to have been so loved that all that love has inherently become part of who I am. Many of her interests, likes, and dislikes have all come naturally to me, and they make me feel closer to her; though I've never taken them on out of desperation, I feel lucky that we're so similar. It's something special to have been so loved that all that love has inherently become part of who I am.
