Hoping We'll Talk Soon

Dear Mom,

Thank you for the red bag you bought me. I never thought I’d say that. It’s large and, well, forgive me. Obnoxious is the only word I can think of. But you don’t care what other people think, ha ha. It hangs on my shoulder and way down to my knees, as you know because it’s a duplicate of yours. And it can get really heavy and puffy the more I stuff into it. The bag sat deflated in a corner of my closet for the longest time, just hanging there, the side punched in from emptiness. Again, sorry. I didn’t use it until I started going to the gym during lunch break. I’m trying to lose this extra weight, and also, I still have high blood pressure from my recent delivery of Maya. I found out I love the bag. It is so handy. I can fit my lunch and my change of clothes in one place. And, it’s thermal lined. I remember you used yours for the same purpose. Everyone around you would eat out, there being so many restaurants in D.C. willing to take workers’ money; and, most people being commuters, they saw it as the logical choice, but not you. You refused to waste your money that way. And you worked out regularly, too, walking to the gym during lunch break, like I’m doing now. Though your work day was so much longer than mine. :) Thanks for my bag. It’s really great!

Dear Mom,

Today, Izzy told me I was awesome. Thank you! What does that have to do with you? Well, we were at the pool in the godforsaken heat of July. It was only her second time in a real pool, swimming (her word). She wanted to see if I was scared of the water, like her. She told me to put my head under water, and to make sure I pinched my nose, which I thought was cheeky of her, to give me advice. I did better than that. I dove under the water like Ariel and kicked my legs hard and straight. I buzzed through the water to her, where she was standing holding the guardrail. You should have seen her face! You’d think I just landed on the moon and she was watching it on TV. I think that was the first time I ever heard her use the word, “awesome.” And she was talking about me! A plain old, stressed-out mom. You were the one who taught me how to swim, first to float, then dog paddle, and to put my head under water and blow all the air out in bubbles. You taught me to kick my legs. You held me, your hand gently placed under the small of my back and said I should make the shape of a kidney bean, so I didn’t sink. I hope I can do as good a job teaching Izzy to swim as you did with me.

Dear Mom, 

I know you won’t write back, but I’m starting to think of a lot of things. It’s been a long time since we talked, and I’m not sure if you’re getting these. Are you? In some cosmic way, I feel like you are getting them because the words are out of my head and in the world. And these words have to do with you. 

I saw the picture of us on one of those early birthdays of mine, our faces smooshed together, smiling. You looked so young and beautiful. I never told you, but in middle school, when you came to the school to bring me something I’d forgotten, my classmate poked me on the shoulder as soon as you left in your high heels and business suit. She said I was pretty, but you were beautiful. I didn’t know how to take it, but now I see how beautiful you are in the picture.

It was Izzy’s birthday last week, and I had to do a lot, not to mention make her cake. Thank you for always making my birthday cake, even if you had to bake it in the morning before work, even half cooking it in the microwave to make sure it was done and cooled so you could frost it, and we could sing happy birthday. I tried to make a Minions cake–actually cupcakes–for Izzy because I’d bought these overpriced sugar toppers that you poke in them. She wanted a Minions themed party. And somehow, they came out burnt on the outside and half-baked inside, though the batter tasted good. I think it’s because the wrappers were made of foil, and there’s a big warning etched in the bottom of my oven when you open the door: “Don’t use foil.” I was so busy, I forgot about the warning. Why no foil? I’m sure you know why. You know so many things.

Dear Mom,

Today wasn’t a good day. I’m sorry to start off that way, but it’s hard to be thankful today. Things can’t always be good. So, I want to thank you for your example. You showed me how to keep going. I saw many bad things happen to you, like when that cop pulled you over, and you didn’t know why. He came out of his car, face red, and made a beeline for your window. He looked cartoonish, with his red face and angry eyes hidden behind reflector sunglasses so you couldn’t really see him. I’m sure beads of sweat popped out all over his forehead when he came at you. You rolled your window down, and he started screaming in your face. He was saying something about how you shouldn’t have turned or changed lanes where you did. I thought it was brave of you to take it, but I was really scared. I didn’t see that you did anything wrong, though I was just a kid. You just took it and kept going. Not that you would’ve let him hurt us. We were there in the back seat, strapped into our seats like always. You would have thrown your body between us anyway or let him take you to jail or even beat you instead of hurt us, like that time many years later. We were standing outside the church that had become your work and your life. You were there every day. A guy you hadn’t seen before was pacing the block, walking up and down alongside the brick church, but going nowhere at one o’clock in the day. You stayed there–just stood right there within five feet of him and without a plan, I imagine– and told us to hurry up and go. We drove an old pickup truck then, but we were still young and didn’t know anything. We left because we could see in your face that you really meant it. I hope I can be like that with my girls. Thinking about this helps me because even though life is not perfect, we can always make the right choice. You taught me that. I remember that even though I didn’t get what I wanted today. I wanted to go to the fair with my friends and have some time to myself and be how I was before kids. But the kids got sick, and it rained anyway on the one day that I planned for myself since Maya was born. I guess I can look forward to the fair next year, and it’ll be better because the kids will be older. 

Dear Mom,

This will be my last letter. My therapist says most things come to an end. Endings aren’t all bad. That’s what she’s helping me to see. Endings are sad in many ways, yes, but they can lead to new things. That’s the hopeful part, and hope is necessary to keep going in life. I’ve decided to keep going. 

I think of you often, frozen in a memory of mine. You were standing, half facing me, but you didn’t see me there twenty feet away, watching. We were at home–though it was really only your home–and Dad’s–by that time, but I was back because it was sold in the divorce. There was a large window looking out into the side yard and onto the neighbor’s house, Mrs. Ott’s house, who lived next to us for twenty years and now her son and daughter were off in college. What a funny, pink house, I always thought but stopped seeing the color after a while. Our house was a bright yellow anyway, so who am I to judge? You looked out that window, and there were no more curtains on them, the curtains you hung yourself. It was dressed only in the cheap blinds that always got tangled, and they were pulled all the way up so anyone could look in. Why do people do that when they move? That’s when I noticed the bare wooden floor, all its scratches and nicks exposed in the sunlight. All the furniture had been removed. There were only boxes left, stacked as high as our shoulders. 

We didn’t really talk about your losing the house or even about Dad, but I saw something on your face, when you were standing in that empty bedroom and me in the living room. Your hair was pulled back in a handkerchief, hands on your hips. You wore a white T-shirt and jeans rolled up daintily at your ankles. For the first time, I saw lines on your face that peeked out in shadows, tracing your sadness as your eyes moved slightly up and down. But, you were not defeated, not done. In your practical way, I knew you would shrug this off, like when you walked out that door, you might never think about the house again–only when you saw it in pictures. 

I’m grateful for the last time I saw you. So, thank you, mom, for everything.