Dear Mom:
It’s been three years since I last spoke to you or was able to see you. That’s a bit difficult for me to comprehend. From my perspective, a day doesn’t pass without me thinking about you or talking to you in my mind. I know that’s just how grief is. But as I live with grief, I discover many ways that the experience can play tricks on me.
You have no idea how thankful I truly am to have had you and Dad as my parents. Of course there were times when I didn’t understand what motivated your choices and decisions, but as time goes on, I have more perspective on such things. Among the greatest gifts you gave me was the ability to find goodness and appreciate life as it unfolds. While there were times you’d worry about various things, you’d find some hope to continue to help you get through the challenges you faced. You were always determined and looked for ways to move forward in life.
Honestly, the most difficult part for me about your leaving is not being able to talk to you. There are things that happen day in and day out that I’d just like you to know. There are also the funny things that I know you’d appreciate. And politics and current events! I know you’d be excited that Hilary is running again and that Bernie Sanders is in the primary.
This past week, I was talking with a friend whose father died about a year ago. He asked if I thought about you a lot. I wasn’t expecting the question and, well, as you’d say, I became sentimental. I told him that not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. He explained that it’s the same for him. It’s amazing how little things become reminders for both of us of having lost our parents.
Some people told me that with both you and Dad gone that I’d begin to feel like I had a new role as a senior member of the family or that I’d feel like I was an orphan. Neither of those things are true for me. Mostly, I feel like I’m no longer attached or rooted anywhere. Even after you sold our family home and you moved in with us, having you with us made it feel like “home.” I don’t have that same sense of connection even though we still live in the same house as we did when you were with us.
We changed your bedroom a bit. The family pictures and many of your things are still there. But we rearranged the furniture. It’s now a sewing room where Kin makes bow ties to sell online. Knowing how much you used to like to sew and make things, I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing these great creations. I wore one of his ties last weekend for a wedding.
Do you remember how you used to try to make the raisin cake just the way your mother made it? You were also so disappointed that it was never quite like hers. I now understand what you went through. I’ve tried time and again to make some of your recipes. While they generally come out just fine and others complement me on what I’ve made, it’s really just not the same as when you’d cook. Your pie crust will always be a mystery to me as well as the dough you made for sweet breads. Over Easter, I decided to just go for it and pulled out your old recipe books and made the traditional foods. It was one of those times I felt like you were still around coaching through the process.
There’s something really important I’ve learned over the last three years. You may remember that about twenty-five years ago I completed my doctoral dissertation on bereavement. I even used it as the basis for one of my books, Living with Loss. At that time, the prevailing models for bereavement were focused on recovery and assumed that in time people essentially got over the loss. You read my book and complemented my achievement the way you always did, but then said that I’d see that losing someone isn’t really that way. At that point in my life, many friends had died and I had officiated at more funerals than most ministers do in a life time. I thought I knew what there was to know about grief and bereavement. But your words stuck with me. Now, with both you and Dad gone, I know that there will always be something missing in my life and nothing else can really take its place. While there are some times that it hurts, it’s also okay. It’s a reminder of how fortunate I’ve been to have had you as my mother.
I know that you’ll see the flowers on your grave this Mother’s Day and think what a waste it is to cut the flowers only for them to die. Yet, I find that I need to do something to express my feelings and to honor you. But I’ll also make sure that I also take time to water the vegetables in the garden and keep the tomato plants (your favorites) healthy. Most of all, I’ll remember how fortunate I am to have had you as my mother.
With hopes that you and Dad are enjoying an eternity of happiness,
Love always,
Lou
