Confessions logo

To Mom

A short letter

By Dana StewartPublished about a year ago 3 min read
To Mom
Photo by Charisse Kenion on Unsplash

It’s been almost ten years since I heard your voice, longer than that since I saw your smile. A real smile, like the kind when we’d stumble upon a ‘real find’ at a yard sale, your favorite store. I still go 'junkin' but not as often. It’s just not the same anymore, not without you. Whenever someone compliments my teak coffee table, yeah, it’s still in my living room, I share our story how you found it at an estate sale buried in a pile of old clothes- and bargained for it for a measly ten dollars. What a deal. A memory.

I haven’t traveled anywhere in the last few years. There’s this thing, it’s a pandemic. It’s swept around the globe creating havoc. A respiratory virus so horrible, I can’t help but think how it would have restricted me from seeing you entirely, with your COPD.

I think fondly on our travels. Every now and then, I pull out an old picture album and thumb through the memories. We got to enjoy so much together! I remember our annual pilgrimages to New York, our nights spent enjoying the Broadway shows. We would spend too much money on dry martinis at the hotel bar then venture out. Remember that one time when we stumbled into Riverdance? I was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, of course you wore your dress pants and blazer, ready for any occasion. The guy outside Radio City was happy we relieved him of his orchestra section tickets. And of course, you looked fabulous. I have the photo framed of you commandeering the Bentley. You were so brazen, putting your hand on the door handle of the car. That was an epic trip. You had booked our room that time on the internet. When we arrived at that shithole hotel in Hell’s Kitchen, the expression on your face when we got to the room and saw that the door lacked about ten inches to meet the floor. I left you there, with all the luggage. I walked a few blocks to Times Square where my Discover card got us in to the Marquis. Three grand for that week, but at least we had a proper door. And you were able to lounge in bed with a view of the Empire State building. Some things are worth the money.

As you know, your grand dog Louie isn’t with me anymore. I like to think the two of you are together now. Spending your days taking long naps and playing hide and seek. The treat jar never runs out and there's sunshine and meadows. You two look out for each other.

The world is still here. Seems there’s always worry for sale on the nightly news. Plagues, war, inflation. It’s a never-ending cycle. I remember you used to say that it’s not the world that changes, it’s the people in it. That’s so true. As I get older, I start to see it. Start to feel it. It’s like motion sickness on a Ferris wheel, it’s always present and you realize you can’t escape it, especially when the ride is in motion.

I tried to fry chicken – once. I did it just like you used to, soaked the chicken in salt water overnight and everything. It wasn’t’ just like yours, but I tried. You were such an amazing cook! I wish I had paid better attention to how you did things. Now I have to wing it.

You were by best friend, Mom. It is such a hard adjustment not to pick up the phone and call you whenever something good happens. There’s nobody to replace you. I never told you how much I’d miss you. I think of you every single day. Some days the pain is fresh, it never seems to dull. But then I see a sign…I’ll find a random four-leaf clover, or a hummingbird will drink from your feeder – and I know you’re ok.

I miss you, Mom. Thank you for loving me. Always.


About the Creator

Dana Stewart

Soup lover proudly owned by fluffy little lap dogs. Likes: sunsets, chocolate, witty replies, and good hair days. Dislikes: Mean people and flan. Hit that subscribe button.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments (1)

Sign in to comment
  • P Faulk10 months ago

    This touched my heart... so deeply! Such a wonderful tribute to your everlasting bond with your precious Mom.

Find us on social media

Miscellaneous links

  • Explore
  • Contact
  • Privacy Policy
  • Terms of Use
  • Support

© 2023 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.