Photography by Liz Mills
Today is a special day, and I so wish it weren’t. Three years ago May 5 ceased being Cinco de Mayo or even my friend Tim’s birthday. For the rest of my life May 5 will be the day a beautiful little girl left us too soon. At just two-and-a-half years old, my sweet little friend, Easton Elizabeth Mills, died suddenly and unexpectedly from a brain tumor.
I’ve written about Easton before (Where the Winks Come From, February 20, 2019 and Magic Cookie Week, December 3, 2019) because her spirit inspired me to create this blog. When I began seeing the Winks she sent her family and friends, I started noticing other Winks around me. After a while, I realized how powerful these Winks were, and I wanted to focus on them more. Anyone who knows me knows that writing is how I think things through, so here we are.
This year the anniversary of Easton’s passing is a little different for me because of the recent loss of my mother. During the past eight months, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the relationships between mothers and daughters. Those relationships aren’t always pretty, but I was lucky in that the one I had with my mother was. Sure, we had our fights and now that she’s gone there are about five million things I’d love to apologize for, but the beauty of our connection overrides that. She’s with me every day, helping me navigate my relationship with my children.
Now that The Tots are tweens, I need her help more than ever. I frequently find myself digging through my memory for any article of wisdom from her that can help me deal with the challenges of the day. As I search for answers to a particular question, I always come across another memory that makes me either laugh or cry. It’s like digging for Christmas decorations in the attic. While you’re trying to find your tree topper, a box of old toys gives you a detour you didn’t know you needed, and you realize that answers are often in places you’d never think to look.
The best way I’ve found to communicate with mom is through writing — big surprise. Most evenings before bed I write letters to her in a journal. I let her know how dad is doing, and I fill her in on what The Tots and I are up to. If I’m mad at someone, she gets to hear all about that, too. Even though it’s just ink on paper, I know she sees it, and I know that she is with me.
The same is true for Easton and her mother, Liz. Though Easton isn’t physically here, Liz feels her presence every moment of the day. Their relationship continues, and it always will. In the meantime, Liz has transformed her heartache into help so that others can also feel Easton’s presence.
Since Easton’s passing, Liz and an army of volunteers have sold untold amounts of cookies to raise funds for Cookies for Kids’ Cancer. Months after Easton died, Liz came up with the idea for the Easton Challenge, a functional training workout at the Lake Norman YMCA that raises funds for disadvantaged kids to go to summer camp. We were all set to hold the third Easton Challenge on April 25, but the coronavirus had other plans.
So today before you gobble tacos and quesadillas, do a quick workout for Easton. If you don’t work out, clap your hands, smile or wear a bow. (Easton could rock a bow like no one else.) Then afterwards, eat a cookie for a beautiful little girl who taught me to look for Winks of Goodness every day.