My Dearest Mom,
I hope you know that I love you, even though I don’t really remember you. I have pictures, but it’s not the same. An old tape recording of you is the only reason I remember the sound of your voice. I sometimes resent my cousins because they knew you better than I did – they have so many memories to share, so much love for you. And I’m thankful for how much you loved them. They needed that, and the things I’ve heard from them about your loving nature gave me a desire from the beginning to love others like that. People tell me that you were kind and patient, and I hope I’ve inherited some of that from you. Some days, I think I do better than others. And some days I wish I could ask you how to improve. So many people loved you. Your parents missed you until the day they died; I don’t think a day went by that they didn’t think of you. They never said an unkind word about you, at least not to me. They didn’t agree with all your choices, but they loved you always. Did you know that they fought for your pictures? It wasn’t easy, but they did it for me. They bought a big black trunk and filled it with you – your pictures, your fur coat, your wedding dress, your clarinet practice book, even the receipt for the clothes you were buried in. Grandma used to go through it with me every summer. It would take us two full days to get everything out and put it back; not because there was so much stuff, but because we would look at every single picture while she told me stories about you. For years I believed that you weren’t really dead; you were in hiding and would come rescue me as soon as you could. I wrote you letters and had dreams about you. I don’t even remember when I finally accepted that you really were in that grave. Probably when I saw a copy of some hospital paperwork from that day…most everything was blacked out, but I could see enough to know that it wasn’t a mistake.
Some days, like today, I miss you so much it hurts. I’ll never know why I think of you every time I smell mustard, and you’ll never know your beautiful grandchildren. I’ll never get to laugh with you about the day we took my favorite picture of us, when I was wearing the yellow flower in my hair. I remember that day! We were celebrating my birthday and Rebecca’s with one party, as always, and you had gotten Rebecca a flower too. Hers was white, and I wanted it instead of my yellow flower. I threw a fit, and I wasn’t very nice to you. The picture doesn’t show that – in the picture, I’m all smiles with my cake showing the story of the little pig who went to kindergarten. If I could talk to you now, I’d tell you thank you for not giving me the white flower. You were right: the yellow one was beautiful, and I was being selfish.
Today would be your birthday. I’ll never forget the last one we got to celebrate with you. I was so excited about the sugar-free cake Grandma had bought you and the dinner she’d made, and so happy to spend time with you at their house. I never dreamed that birthday would be your last, and I know you didn’t either. Remembering you makes me realize how unpredictable life is and how little control we really have over it. Remembering your life, I can’t help but renew my own desire to make mine count – to love freely and fully, to serve others, to be generous and kind. To move past my mistakes, to forgive myself when I mess up, and to never forget that it could all be over in an instant. You weren’t perfect, but you’ll always be an inspiration to me.
Love always,
Meredith Lee
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