Hello, Mom

Hello, Mom

Is that really how I should begin this letter, with the ever-present taste of my grief in my mouth? It's been nineteen years, nearly twenty now, since you left me and, while the pain has certainly dulled, it lingers still. Like you do, I suppose. Sometimes I imagine I can feel you around me, a whispering presence that I take some comfort in, but it's been a long time since I've tried to speak to you.

There are so many things I want to say to you, and I know I would spend hours just telling you about me, who I am, spilling all my secrets to you and trusting you to still be proud of me at the end of it all. Some of those secrets keep me awake at night. My life hasn't exactly been easy in any sense of the word, and I've had to make decisions and choices that may not have been in my best interests. I could place that blame on you, you who abandoned your three daughters for your love of a bottle of alcohol, but I'm older now and I know that you had your own demons you fought with. You fought while you could but your body couldn't keep up.

I think I was lucky in some ways, luckier than my sisters, because I never doubted that you loved me. I remember standing on a snowy sidewalk while you wrapped me up in that old leather jacket you always wore, the one with the green silk lining with the atlas print. It's been so long and I still remember the warmth and the way you always smelled like Marlboros and perfume. One of my secrets, Mom, was when you would keep me home because I felt sick, I was rarely sick. I just wanted to spend time with you. I wanted Mom and Me days. I wanted you to wrap me up in your big leather jacket and protect me from the cold world while we waited on the bus to take us on some adventure through the city.

Neither of my sisters had those days with you, as I learned later. Another secret, I suppose, was that I'm glad that only I got those days with you. It's a selfish joy. They had more time with you so shouldn't I have gotten some moments with you by myself?

My friends and I make jokes about me being an orphan and I lie that having parents to constantly pester me would just be an annoyance. I lie that the back of my throat doesn't ache with unspent tears every Mother's Day, and that I don't spend that day laying in bed with my eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

There are so many things I want to tell you. More than I could ever put on paper. My biggest secret yet, Mom, is that I forgive you. You did what you could for the short amount of time we had with you, and you raised three strong women. We each struggle with our own demons, perhaps inherited from you, but we know better than to fail and leave behind people that rely on us.

I love you and I will always miss you. I'll always crave that feeling of being small and tucked safely in your arms, surrounded by the warmth of that leather jacket. A moment of peace crystallized in my memory.

So, I guess this is a goodbye. At least, for now. Until I have more secrets to share with the ghost of your memory hovering over my shoulders.