Letters to Mom

Image

Dearest Mom:
I knew, long ago, that I would feel completely lost without you in this world. There are so many ways I miss you I cannot even begin to describe them. I know people try to understand that I’m still mourning. You’ve been gone since June 15, 2013 but it’s barely been a breath in my world. A ragged, dragged in breath between sobs that shake my soul and seem as if they’ll never end.
To say that I miss you doesn’t even come close to what it’s like without you. My life has been ripped apart, and yet, like all my siblings, I have to go on with it. Daniel’s five days in the hospital (where we had an altar with your photo on it) ended with him needing two more respiratory treatments, and his cough is already sounding worse again after a week at home. I don’t know if I can live through losing both of you. I watched your deep sorrows (and joys) throughout your life, and know each of your children had a special relationship with you. Ours seemed to diverge in unthinkable ways at times, and at others seemed to mirror each other. You lost a brother, I will lose a son. You were never quite the same after he was declared MIA, and I have never been the same since Daniel’s diagnosis. I’ve always felt close to your side of the family, and yet I don’t know any of them. I know it is, in part, because you said I reminded you of your mother, although I can’t imagine anyone less like her than I see myself to be. You said I “saved your life” by being there, an innocent young girl with big brown eyes, during some of your darkest times. Times when you needed to know innocence still existed, and I had my child’s view of you as perfect, of your love as perfect, that helped you feel your life was still worth living in some of the hardest days you faced. (then I lost my innocence and caused you some intense worrying, but our connection always felt open) I always saw you as Audrey Hepburn, grace personified, but with an English Garden soul. You didn’t share your most challenging moments with more than a select few. Mostly, you listened. To all of us. Friends, family, people you barely knew. I’ve inherited that from you (or learned it) and I’m so grateful. I let you down most in the last couple of years, when all my sisters called you daily, and I barely managed it once a week. I didn’t want to worry you, and so many of my days were filled with sorrow. Some of it due to depression and letting my “self” get lost. I didn’t want to call you when I was weak, especially once we lost Dad. We’d gone through so much together, I somehow couldn’t bear to talk about our shared loneliness (my own more self-incurred, yours because of the circumstances of your birth and how your life unfolded).
You made Dad’s funeral a hero’s tribute, full of all he accomplished, his honors, certificates, and all he gave to our community. Who will come to your Memorial Celebration Mom? You, who always passed up the glory to let others shine. Those people who really knew you know that Dad, as amazing as he was, needed you as his compass. Always willing to let him have the spotlight, whether holding his hand and heart or holding him up in those last years when dementia robbed him of everything dear to him. No one and nothing was more dear to him than you, sweet Margaret, whose brother carried a photo of you in his U.S. Navy Hat during WW II. where most sailors had photos of their girlfriends. You have been more dearly beloved to more people than can ever show up at your Memorial Service. Many of them are already gone from this “vale of tears” and rejoicing with you, I dearly hope, in that place of peace beyond this life. If there is a heaven, it is there because nowhere else would be fit for someone of such ethereal beauty of form, and of heart, as you. There are many letters, and memories to come. But the duties of my life are calling.
Know my love is with you still, and the love of all your children and so many, many others.

With All My Love, broken-hearted as it may be,

Your youngest daughter,

Janet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s