Recently, I took the family to see Hidden Figures, and I cannot explain how many times I had to smother my sobs during the film. Fragmented memories flickered through my head and began connecting to words my mother and grandfather had spoken to me about honoring those who came before me and never forgetting their contributions. Sadly, over the years, I had forgotten some of those lessons.

My mom and her dad have traveled on to Paradise fourteen and thirteen years ago respectively, and most days I’m better than okay. As my mother’s only child, I wouldn’t have expected to be this okay without her daily presence. But in her own way, she’s here. She’s here in my children’s crooked smiles and equally twisted senses of humor. She’s here in my son’s love of chemistry and his brother’s drive toward world domination. She’s there in the quiet when my adult daughters just want to sit in my lap and be my girls. She’s there in our singing and silliness. She’s there in my hands as they twitch and tingle when I’m restless and need to create. She’s there in my voice. She’s there in my face, supervising the growth of her legacy from behind my eyes.

Watching Hidden Figures made my mother’s and grandfather’s absence absolutely profound. All those areas where she is, she’s not. She isn’t here to tease and lead her grandkids. She isn’t here to cheer louder than an entire stadium for my latest achievement or idea. She isn’t here to argue with about the state of the world today. There is no granddad who would spill international secrets if his coffee was made correctly, and according to him, I was the only one who got it right–naturally, we talked a lot, and I make a mean cuppa joe.

On the screen were powerhouse portrayals of icons who I know inspired my mother to go to college and become a chemist. The introduction of the IBM and subsequent struggle caused laughter to erupt in me and the audience, but I don’t think everyone in the darkened theater was privy to my granddad telling me how he used to work in the factory that made the cards. I don’t believe the audience was laughing at memories of my mom and her dad at the dinner table with their heads together, dissecting strings of numbers while the rest of us backed away slowly because “Frick and Frack were in the zone,” speaking their own language and having the time of their lives.

So, after absorbing the experience of Hidden Figures, I feel … everything. I feel grateful for the time I had with Mom and Granddad, and I’m grateful for a film infused with the rawness and realness of brilliant women living their truths. I feel frustration and sadness for losing two of the most influential people in my life before I really started living. But most of all, I feel … loved.

At my mom’s memorial service, my uncle-in-law said, “Don’t wait until death to give flowers. Give those you love flowers while they’re still here.” What I always took that to mean was: Tell people how much they mean to you. Funerals aren’t for weeping when the departed has run a good race. Celebrate their life while they’re alive.

Blessings, y’all.