Saturday, July 25, 2009

(I wrote this days ago and haven't been able to hit the publish button. Today is exactly two weeks away. I need to publish.)

Dear Mom,

The anniversary of your death is coming up in a couple of weeks. Already on the inside I am hyperventilating while bent over wanting to throw up. I miss you a lot. I see you in the faces of my children everyday; sometimes the light and their expressions trick me and I think I am looking at you. Sometimes it is the way the Hurricane stands when he is annoyed, with his fists on his hips and a frowny look on his face; just like you used to do when you were annoyed.

I see a lot of you in myself, too. Some of the things I say to my kids are the same things you said to us. The words just pop out and I think to myself, 'Self, you sound just like your mother.' I never knew the heartbreak and joy that being a mother brings. It's really hard, some days, with three kids. You went through this, too. I wish you were here in person to help me.

I don't know so much if God exists, but I do believe you are an angel watching over my kids. M says that you are sending her butterflies, and I think you are sending me butterflies too. Sometimes they fly into the grill of my truck when I am racing down the highway, so thanks for that. Yes, Mom, I am still inappropriate as ever; you know how honestly I come by it.

I guess you know about the tattoo, hey? I can just imagine how impressed you are. Are you up there having a fit like you did when I got my first one? I still hear you in my mind telling me that I am defacing my body and ruining my life and now I'll have to join the Navy or be a truckdriver because I'm covered in tattoos but nobody ever listens to you because what do you know, nothing, you say, nothing, so you should just fall off the earth. Melodramatic, Ma. Just a bit. I bet heaven has lots of dumpsters you can sit on and shoo away crows. Your ethereal life can still have meaning.

If I never did it before, I want to thank you for some big gifts you gave me. The knowledge that life doesn't owe me anything. That I must work hard for the things I want. That I should never doubt who I am, be ashamed of where I came from, or feel less of a person than anyone else. To take nothing that isn't freely given; to give freely when I can. To help others. To get right back up when life kicks my teeth in. To think for myself. To rely on myself. To own my mistakes and try to make them right. All of these weren't things we talked about; they were things you did that I saw. Thanks for making me a good person and totally square. Ha-ha.

I wish we had more time together, Mom. I wish you could watch my kids grow from here on Earth. I wish I could ask your advice and vent and cry on your shoulder. I worry about Dad, I don't think he is doing so well; he is depressed and in denial about it. Stubborn ass. I don't think butterflies will cut it for him; maybe a dream-visit where you can give him a dream-punch in the head and tell him to get some help.

I hope you don't worry too much about us down here. You left a big hole, but we are tough. We are your people, so we will survive. Everyday, we miss you.

Love you lots,

Middle kid.


  1. I'm so sorry for your loss. The one year anniversary of my dad's and my mother-in-law's deaths were last April. I totally understand how you feel right now. Hang in there and hug your babies- they'll help you get through.

  2. Awww, honey. What a sweet, wonderful letter. How proud she must have been to have such a kick arse daughter.

    Big online hugs.


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