Dear Mom,
It was six years ago today that I took your hand and whispered in your ear for the last time. I told you it was okay to go when you were ready; not to stay for us and then I choked back the tears while I walked out of the hospital room door. By the time I came back you were gone. I can't believe it's been that long until I think about all the things that have happened since that day...then it feels like it's been an eternity since I saw your smiling face.
There hasn't been a day that I haven't thought about you at some point. For a while after you left I would catch myself thinking, "I need to remember to tell Mom about that." Then I would realize I couldn't. I think it took me a year before it really sank in...that there wouldn't be anymore phone calls with you on the other end saying, "I just wanted to hear your voice"...no more hugs that chased the clouds away...no more shopping trips...no more, "Hey, do you know what your granddaughter did this week?!"
By the way, you have a grandson now. I brought him up to your grave last year and tried to explain that you were my mommy. But how can a 4 year old understand that. He will someday. He asks me about the picture of you sitting on my vanity all of the time. I wish he could have known you. Sat in your lap. Been lavished with your kisses and undivided attention. You would have loved him to pieces and he would have had you wrapped around his little finger in two shakes of a lambs tail. Months before he was born I used to fantasize about seeing you in the delivery room...in some kind of drug induced delirium. Then I didn't have time for drugs...and I hoped that I would see you because of some pain induced delirium. I remember I was sorely disappointed when it was over and I hadn't seen you or felt your presence. But you know, that's okay. I hope you can't see the things that happen here. What kind of heaven would it be if you were subjected to all the earthly woes...or even victories?
There have been so many times I wish I could talk to you, to ask you questions, to thank you for being the mother that you were. I know that you didn't think that you made a difference in people's lives. I've read your diaries...I know. But you did matter. You mattered to a lot of people. The church was packed for your funeral. Your kindness was felt and appreciated by, I think, every one that knew you. People still tell me what a wonderful person you were. I wish you could have seen that about yourself. I suppose we are quite alike that way. We doubt our worth all too much.
Do you remember the dream you had about your mother, shortly after she had passed away? The one when you walked into your childhood church and she was sitting in a pew waiting for you. You said you sat down and you talked to her about things going on in your life. When you woke you were so sad because you had more that you wanted to talk to her about. I've been waiting to have you in my dreams. I finally did last year, sometime after your brother joined you. I think I'd been spending too much time at Grandma's house cleaning. You were there as well as Aunt Helen, Grandma and Uncle Dale came in later. We were sitting in the sunroom but it was night and it was dimly lit by a weak light bulb. I was cleaning and packing and everything seemed quite hazy. No one spoke but there were low murmers all around me. All too low for me to comprehend the words being uttered. Grandma kept directing me to something, something glass, though I can't remember what it was. Maybe a vase or a stemmed glass or decanter. When I woke up my heart was racing and I was crying. We never got to talk. Maybe another time?
I miss you. Somedays the longing is palpable. I could point to the place in my chest filled with the aching desire to have you near me again. But it would be selfish to wish you back. So, I look around me for pieces of you. It always brings me comfort. I sat down the other night and thumbed through the Mommy and Grandma books you started and we helped you work on the last few days you were with us and lucid. I wish we could have completed more of it. There are more blank pages than full pages. I keep thinking that I need to sit down and record some of the stories I remember you telling me about...before I forget them or before time erases some of the details from my memory. It's funny how seeing your handwriting fills the corners of my eyes with tears. The last tangible, unique piece of you left. I like to run my fingers over the ink and think that your hand brushed the page in just that place. Is that crazy? Somedays I wonder. I guess if it is, it is.
Well, I suppose that I have rambled enough. But this was nice. I need to do it again, soon. Surprisingly, I made it through with dry eyes. Maybe I've cried them all out lately and there just aren't more to spare. I love you, Mom. I wish I could be half of the mother and woman that you were. I know you wouldn't see that...but I do. I couldn't have picked out a better mom if I'd been allowed to.
Until next time,
Your loving daughter