text: My mom laid there on the hideous hospital bed that had taken up space in the living room for the past two months. She hated that bed. If she could have talked she probably would have said that it was the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Her head was propped up on two pillows, one over sized and one undersized. Her comforter was covering her now tiny body which was always cold. She laid there eyes open and looked up to the heavens. My mom was dying physically. She was no longer going to be here after that cool November day, the week before Thanksgiving. She gave me one last look and took her last breath. In my life there were only three times I cried as hard. I held her hand one last time and gave her one last kiss and prayed to the heavens that she was out of pain now and she would rest easy now. That day I lost my mom and I lost myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I have heard that we are all put on this earth for a purpose. That you have to live your life with purpose. That you were entitled to have happiness, peace and abundance. But, here I was not knowing what purpose I had any more. I was always Carol’s daughter, the oldest of her three children. Big sister, mom to my son later in life and for the last three years I was my mother’s caregiver. I was there 24/7. I cooked her breakfast every single morning. Before she lost her voice we would talk over eggs and potatoes about the morning talk shows and how ridiculous she thought some of them were. We sipped tea or coffee together and she told me stories about when she was my age and younger. She would share with me advice about life and her struggles and prayed that her struggles would not become my struggles. We would have pineapple pizza for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. We would laugh at the stories my sister would tell about her husband. Days, weeks, months passed faster than we wanted them too. Mom had very good days and very bad days. At certain times even hospital days. They were terrible days. Each time she went in she came out worse. The last time was the time she never fully recovered. Her body could not take any more. I was angry at first that she left me. I now had to search for my own identity. I now didn’t know who I was anymore. If I was not Carol’s daughter, who was I? In the days and weeks following the death of my mother I tried to do all the things that I had never done. I immersed myself in taking swimming classes which I had stopped taking long ago. I took cooking lessons, art lessons, and even took a ride in a hot air balloon and almost scared myself out of this world. I spent more time in the garden and trimming the trees, counting the fallen leaves and trying to plant pretty flowers in assorted flower pots. I had a barbecue in the middle of the coldest December day of the year. My nose ran, my face was cold, my gloved hands almost turned blue but I persisted turning that chicken trying to get the perfect color, the perfect grill marks. Mom would have liked that chicken and would have told me to bring my behind inside before I got sick. I exercised more and went from walking to running. I ran fast and hard, losing my breath at times but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was running towards something. I was running trying towards the woman at the end of the block. I knew this woman. She was short like me, kind, long red hair like mine blowing behind her as she ran faster and faster. Then the woman was gone. I finally got to the corner and she was gone. I cried out for her to come back. I screamed for her to come back. I needed her. I needed her more than ever. I need her voice, her strength, her courage. Finally I ran home. My new home, the home I had been living in for a year. The home I wanted to share longer with my mother. Our dream home. I looked around at the high ceilings, the skylights in the living room and wooden planks in the kitchen. I stared at the grain of the wood on the railings leading to the loft. My hands felt the wood trimming on the walls. I stared at the place where my mom took her last breath. I knelt down on that spot where the carpet frayed from the bed and I let out a primal scream. My hands were bruised from the beating I gave the wall. My knees were sore and my head was empty of thoughts and feelings. My heart was full of love and regret. The ornaments fell to the ground as I sat at the crotch of the Christmas tree. One bulb was mother, another one a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dreamer. One bulb had the name of all the places I had not been, Paris, Grease, Louisiana, Lake Tahoe, Hawaii and other exotic places. The bulbs went so high that I could not name them all. It was like they disappeared into the colors of the lights at the top of the tree. The star, the elusive star which I had trouble finding every year, that star was an accumulation of my life. Every year I wished upon that star. I wished for peace, happiness, toys, clothes, health, strawberry cakes and chocolate kisses. That star was the brightest. It lit up the room but more than that. It lit up something I didn’t expect. That star, that big bright silver and gold star lit up me. My head filled with thoughts, lots of thoughts. Thoughts about the past, future, present and most of all the one thought that told me that I had found something. That very second that thought that was like a whisper in my ear, the thought that made the hair on my neck stand up, the thought that told me that I had always known my purpose in life, the thought that told me I never lost myself that I just needed to look for me. I will be many things to many people over my years on this earth and that was part of my purpose to love and to be loved, to be happy and sprinkle happiness where it needs to be, take care of people and let people take care of me and dare to be my unique beautiful self. In that moment I learned what I was seeking was already here, in the mirror looking right at me.