Dear Mom,
You’re gone 4 years today. Most of the time I’m pretty philosophical about it. I mean, crying in my beer won’t bring you and Dad back, so I might as well get on with it.
I’m not feeling so philosophical today.
You died when I was 31 — hardly a child. But sometimes I think you never got to see the fully cooked version of me.
Devon and I are happy. We’re having a house built. It’s amazing. The kitchen would make you pee yourself. But then, lots of things made you pee yourself. We were a lot alike.
I had a baby girl in February. (I know, way to bury the lede.) The pregnancy was easy. The delivery was not. I spent two days giving birth to her, and it sucked, but I’d have done it for a week if I’d known how awesome she’d be. As I type this, I’m watching her try to eat her feet. You would have adored her. She has a smile that makes my heart happy. With the divorce and your sickness, I didn’t spend a lot of time being happy in those last few years before you died. This is a nice change.
I remember when you were in ICU, and Devon and I told you we were getting married. We told you if we had a baby and she was a girl, we would name her after your mother. You were so happy you cried. You died two months later. You weren’t going to see the rest of my life unfold, but I wanted you to know. I wish Aurelia had the chance to know you. You could make me guano fucking nuts, but I’d give quite a lot for some of your unwanted advice right now.
For years, I couldn’t remember most of my adult relationship with you. I remembered my childhood and the period I’ll call PD (Post Diagnosis), but the rest of it fell into a hazy void. I’m starting to remember now – sitting at your kitchen table gossiping, teaching you how to use a computer, helping you put on your socks.
It wasn’t all good. I won’t go into much detail here. Opening my own flaws to the world is fine, but laying yours bare, without giving you the chance to explain, seems like a dirty trick. But I’m not nearly as angry as I used to be. I know you were scared — too scared to do the things you should have — but you were good enough. I hope I will be good enough, too.
You would have been 80 tomorrow. Try not to get too drunk.
Scratch that. Party your old-lady socks off.