An Open Letter To My Mom

Hi Mom,

I've been thinking a lot about you again.

It's funny how grief runs in seasons like that. At first, losing you was so overwhelming I could barely breathe. Your loss turned me inside out and nothing felt the same. Then, time marched on and, as it did, the sharp edges of grief fell off. A new normal arose from within.

Now...now there are entire weeks that go by where I don't think about what life would be like if you were here. My life is full of joy, and peace, and hope for the future. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I immerse myself in my days and live them for what they are, because that's really all any of us can do. And I know that you'd want me to do this very thing; I know that your greatest hope for me would be this very life that I am living.

But then there are the moments when something makes me stop and remember. Remember you. Remember your smile and your voice and your laugh. Remember how much I have lost by not having you here to see this life as it unfolds miraculously in front of me.

I'm not sure why I've had more of those moments lately. Perhaps it's because we had to say good-bye to your sister a couple weeks ago. Although I didn't know her well when I was a child, she tried so hard to establish a relationship with me as a grown-up. She loved to read my blog, and she encouraged me. Sometimes she shared stories about you, or about me when I was young. I didn't even realize it then, but it was nice to have that piece of you, that connection to you, through her. And now that is gone, too.

Or perhaps it's because my baby girl is growing up. She's not a baby anymore, she's a toddler, and she is marvelous. Sometimes I see you cross over her face, like a shadow...and then it's gone. Right now, she's at the very age I was when you took it upon yourself to write down the things that I was doing that made you smile. Every once in a while, I pull out that yellow lined paper where memories of my childhood are documented in your careful teacher's penmenship, and I smile along with you as I imagine myself doing those things. Then I see my baby girl do them, and suddenly I am you, smiling at her, like you were smiling at me. And although those moments help me remember that I am connected to you through her, I still feel your loss most profoundly inside of them.

So today, I was thinking about all the things I'd do if you were here with me.

First, of course, I'd grab you by the hand and introduce you to my babies. I'd tell you all about Joseph and how he's learning to read and write and how amazed and thrilled I am to be able to share our love of the written word with him. And then I'd let you hold my baby girl, and we'd marvel together in the memories of me as we talked about her.

Then we'd head to the kitchen where you'd insist on making me my favorite dinner, just like you always used to do when I came home to visit. Nobody makes me that dinner anymore, but even if someone did, even if the ingredients were measured carefully and the food was prepared as precisely as it had been by you, even then it wouldn't be the same, because the dinner was never really about the food. It was about the love with which the food was made. And I'd tell you how, in your absence, I've realized that the unconditional love that flows from a mother to her daughter can simply not be replaced. And when I lost that source of love, I suddenly felt very alone. And sometimes I still do.

After dinner, we'd grab a cup of coffee and I'd ask you how you survived when Kate and I were young. I'd tell you that motherhood is way harder than I ever imagined it to be. I'd tell you how much I've learned about myself, and how many mistakes I have made...and how much I regret them. I'd tell you that I'm sorry for not appreciating you, for not recognizing all the sacrifices you made for me, for not understanding how lucky I was to have you in my life. For taking you for granted.

After a while, we'd have to look for your cup of coffee, which you'd have lost somewhere along the way when you went to warm it up. We'd find it, still in the microwave, needing to be warmed up yet again. I'd log you onto facebook and show you around. You'd love it, but it would take quite a while for you to figure out how to make it work. We'd talk about our love of books and bemoan the likelihood that my grandchildren will probably never know the pleasure that comes from cracking open a new book and feeling the weight of that book in their hands as they read. We'd go shopping together and you'd find a way to convince me that if *you* bought me something new to wear, I wouldn't be breaking my current promise to not buy new clothes, especially if you used some of your magic $20s to pay for them. And then we'd play a game of Scrabble.

And I'd win.

I still remember the day the world took

you back & there was never enough time to thank

you for the thousand scattered moments

you left behind to watch us while we slept.

-Brian Andreas, Thousand Moments