My mom had a plate she displayed on the kitchen counter. It was white, rectangular shaped, and sat on a small easel. Nothing out of the ordinary really. She used it as a makeshift bulletin board mostly for reminders. With a dry erase marker she would jot down an appointment reminder or a couple of items she didn’t want to forget to grab next time she was at the grocery store. “Oculista: Martes 10:30” or “Leche, Arroz, Huevos.” As the seasons changed she alternated a little colored ribbon in the top corner. It sat there so long it had become as much of a fixture as the rice cooker or the blender.

After she passed away, my sister and I had the overwhelming job of sorting through her belongings and tying up loose ends as is customary with the loss of a loved one. There were multiple trips to Home Depot for moving boxes while fielding phone calls and messages from family, friends, and neighbors. The hospital needed us to come by and pick up her belongings. The funeral home needed us to pick up her death certificate. We had a tight window in which to do it and a mountain of grief weighing us down. My sister and I had come together in Florida but she lived in New Jersey and I in Texas so we had to work fast, decide what each was keeping, and what was being donated.

We spent our days in mom’s two bedroom condo going through clothing, kitchen appliances, bedding, and jewelry before retiring to our hotel room at night. On day three, I opened the closet where mom kept stacks of photo albums she had lovingly filled, I knew my heart could not handle sorting through it. I inherited my love of photography from my mom. Memories of her aiming a camera at us at birthdays, holidays or just a weekend at the park washed over me like icy water. She took such joy not only in capturing moment after moment of our childhood, but also in processing the film and providing prints to my grandmother, my aunt, and anyone else who had shared in creating that memory. I stood in front of the closet long enough for my sister to come looking for me. Shoulder to shoulder we stood in silence.

On the shelf below the albums were photo boxes filled with what I knew would be my mom’s smile come to life once more, the sound of my brother, my sister, and my giggles as we opened gifts from Santa Christmas morning, the smell of my dad’s cigarette as it dangled from his lips because his hands were playing his conga drum. I wasn’t ready to relive those moments when I could barely face the thought of a world where every memory created from this day forward would not include my mom. The tears came without warning. The sobs sounded like they belonged to a stranger. Going through the rest of the apartment was painful enough. Where would I find the strength to complete this task knowing these photos were now the only place I would ever see my mom’s face?

I headed into the kitchen to catch my breath, opened the fridge to grab a water, and caught a glimpse of my mom’s plate. It had a red and green ribbon tied to the corner which was strange because it was only September. I remember wondering if mom had changed out the ribbon early this year or if it had been there since last Christmas and I just hadn’t noticed. Grief is funny that way. Every little thing matters and nothing matters. I walked up to the plate to read mom’s handwriting and felt my heart race as I read the words that felt more like a lifeboat. While I was drowning in pain over the challenge of mom’s photos, her message was sitting in the next room just waiting for me to see it.

“Beleive in God! With Him everything is Posible.”

I could hear her voice. I could feel her encouragement. My sister and I spent the night sorting photos at the hotel. Thankfully, mom had quite a few duplicates which made divvying them up a bit easier. We cried and laughed and cried some more reliving priceless moments until the sun came up. That morning back at her condo, I packed up the Christmas Plate careful to keep mom’s message intact. It now sits in my own kitchen where it feeds my soul on my best days and speaks to my heart on my worst days.