Please Mom, Do NOT Visit Me

I'm not ready for it.  I'm afraid to think about you too hard because then I know you'll visit me in my sleep.  I miss you.  Holy shit I miss you so much.  I miss your funny voicemails, where you'd ask me a question and wait for the answer... even though you were talking to a machine and you knew it. 
I miss how you would laugh at my stupid jokes and you always managed to pass off even a courtesy laugh as a real, genuine laugh.  I considered comedy as a career choice at one point. 
I miss your cooking. 
I do not miss your driving.  Sorry mom. 
I miss your eyes.  They were such an amazing blue and for some reason you always had this optimistic and hopeful expression in your eyes.  And I always thought that you were the only adult I knew who had that expression.  It baffled me.
I miss how your number one goal in life was to let us kids know how important we were to you.  It isn't like I need the constant affirmation.  What I miss about it is the example you set for me of constantly showing your loved ones that you loved them.  
So why wouldn't I want you to visit me?  Why would I be afraid to sleep at night or meditate or pray or do anything that might give you a quiet moment to come in and visit me? 
Because I know exactly what you'll do and say.  You'll tell me how much you love me and you'll hug me and you'll tell me how happy you are to be with Jesus finally. 
It'll feel too much like forgiveness and I'm not ready for it.
I guess I'm not ready to be at peace with this. 
You suffered so long, so much.  I feel that I failed you.  I lost patience with you, I never once could grasp what you must have been going through, I selfishly only thought of my loss, me... me... me...
And there is no way to go back and fix it -- to hug you more, to spend more time with you, to empathize more.
So, I'm stuck in this self-punishing mode. 
Ironically, I get this from you.  I'm afraid if you visit me you'll forgive me, take away my self-punishment, and really that's kind of my last tangible connection to you.  There is nothing on this planet that is as tangible as the long slow burn of failure and guilt. 
When you died and I went into your room, I had to remove your rosary before we left.  I carefully unwound it from your hands, and placed your hands -- clasped in prayer -- on your chest.  As I moved you a bit, I felt a warm spot on you.  I suppose the blankets had kept the last of your body heat from escaping.  My heart nearly stopped.  I knew I would never feel that warmth, ever again. 
Instead I'm clinging to the burning sensation of failure and guilt.  If you visit me, you'll take that away. 
I really just need to hang on to this connection to you, Mom, no matter how little sense it makes. 
Please Mom, do NOT visit me.