A Wound Far From Closure

This is equally a love letter to my mother during her Sagittarius season and on her birthday as it is a letter to others to keep the memories of those we have lost present. In grief, I have learned how to internalize those random pieces, these truly glorious parts of my upbringing. Of my parents' authenticity. Things I should never forget. For my mother (and father), I will live in a way that honors and inspires others to remember those who are only gone in form, never in spirit.

Happy Birthday to my dear mother. I miss you more than life. As a professional writer, I am so tempted to write paragraph after paragraph. To work out these inward thoughts on paper. And although I recognize that others may not want to explore those as much as I need to, I want them to know you. I am being transparent. I want to open my relationship with you, that ultimate mother-daughter bond. To see you through my eyes. I am overcome by words that need to breathe. The magic in the journey of being your daughter.

And the pain unearthed in reminiscing over you. Reflecting on the early years and easier times long ago and not so distant. Before I began planning holidays without you. Or not having you on my gifting list. I don't believe I am here in this truth. But nothing can change this piece of my story or my love for you.

Memories of being that cross-legged girl on the edge of the bed gingerly combing your hair. Sweetly bonding. I didn't know it then, but wow does it hit home now. Why do people share so much of the daily stuff. Why that may become part of what you long for the most. How normal and even predictable lives become what we spend a lifetime trying to replicate.

What you gave me was inimitable. The love that I felt in everything around me. The joy that made me feel whole. Nothing else could shake me or make me fall to my knees if I knew that you and Dad loved me.

I must say that I always knew beyond any doubt that I was a loved child. And the way it eased my mind. I wish that I would have told you that. Simple things that we forget. Maybe even taken for granted.

I think about how incredibly kind and fiercely protective you were of me. How you loved so strongly that you often placed your needs last. How you adored my father and your relationship was simply "goals". That you understood the pain and challenges of everyone and always used empathy. I am still in awe of those traits you easily expressed without trying. Your intuition and wit. You were true to yourself.

I am walking in your footsteps, but really unsure if I am doing them justice. My awkward steps may be slightly wobbly, but I will constantly try to keep your memory alive in whatever I do.

I love you, mother. I am your child, still waiting for your voice on the other line. Or seeing you open your clamshell cell phone that you often refused to upgrade. No need to overly complicate anything. Like not having a Facebook page. Just keep it simple. And real. Just like our relationship. A breath of fresh air was what you were to me. The openness we shared. You knew how I felt before I had a chance to vocalize it.

I couldn't keep a secret, ever. You cracked me.

You were a mirror for my vulnerability.

I want to take a seat at the table at your little 1/1 apartment complex, and chat for hours about everything under the sun. How time meant absolutely nothing. And you'd often volunteer to feed us with a pizza party pack before we went on our long drive home to a town an hour or more away.

Knowing what I do today, I would probably never leave that chair. I would be afraid I would miss you. Like I do.

But I know that we had so much fun. And remember how we stood outside at 3:30 am waiting for the Black Friday sales and giveaways to start? I must have taken you to 3 shops that night between then and 6 am. Crazy, right? We may have overdone it, but wasn't it a blast? Or that Black Friday eve trip to Target when I stood in a line that wound around the expanse of the store just to grab an Xbox 360 for your grandson. You were in front of the store, just waiting for me. I think you took a chair at Starbucks and watched the crazy melee. It must have been a three-hour affair. I survived and so did you. I think we had to have slept in after that. Or did we pick up Mickey Mouse ornaments at JcP?

My mother and I bonded over shopping excursions. My dad was never much of a shopping kind of guy. He preferred to leave that part to Mom. And we enjoyed collecting bags. Not handbags, But shopping bags. Our small mall was no match for our energy level.

Pre-pandemic Black Friday was a real test of a shopper's mettle. Remember when I told you all about the story of me being pregnant, at the big box store lunging in for one of those DVD player doorbusters (circa 2001)? This was dangerous work. Fortunately, I was pretty short and got around the taller, more imposing figures that took to every electronics item in the circular.

I was on a mission to save Christmas that year. And you understood the joy of seeing a child overcome with glee on Christmas Day. You gave that to me so many seasons. And your grands as well. Stacks upon stacks of heaping presents. Sometimes they teetered and rocked by the time "the Man With The Bag" arrived. You always remembered which was which.

I am sure you stood in long lines when I was small. Or did the same for me the year Cabbage Patch Kids were hot? Didn't you find mine at an appliance store that turned into a virtual Sears and Roebucks during the holiday season? You did not only find two cute dolls but CPK diapers too. Wow. I wish I had those dolls today. Never has a rag doll been so luxurious as these. Down to the outie belly button.

I bugged everybody that year. My grandma was even in on it. She handmade me a rag doll just in case Santa didn't come through. The law of Supply and Demand. You can never be sure your kid won't be disappointed.

Somehow I wasn't ever let down. And the cheer was everywhere on Xmas. And the joy of believing in what you cannot see.

But this year, I don't feel so much cheer this time around. Because we are missing you at the table.

You dealt with my spontaneous nonsense often but seemed to laugh it off. You innately understood why I had to jump into action. The assignment was never lost on you. You were empathetic to whatever my plight was. My life twists and turns were never not part of your heart connection to me. You got me. I got you. This was meant to be.

I wish we were still planning our next getaway or having you overnight for extended weekends. We would lug your heavy luggage and suitcase into the house as if you were staying for a month solid.

It was adorable. Yes, I remember those tiny details. Sometimes they matter more than the big things in life.

And we could be silly with each other. And just live out loud. And your laughter was so contagious. And those intellectual nerdy talks about the latest news. Impromptu trips out of town just because we needed to celebrate life. You were my friend. That special bestie that knows every secret. Sometimes it was like you were my older sister. And we were kindred spirits being free and you never tried to change me. Just loved on me because I was your child. And how I miss those days. So good. So full. But so brief.

Turning back time is impossible. The one thing we do have is those tender, treasured images of memories to be our warmth, our snuggles and hugs. But we want to have our parents back more than life itself. That's the truth. And the way it leaves us speechless. Dazed.

The irony of the sad truth is we have taken their places. Now we are those adults. We are putting together the puzzles and Christmas presents with instructions.

We are cheering at events and shuttling kids from children's activities to college campuses.

We are empty nesters. We are losing our incredible parents.

Why can't we wish ourselves back to that magical and much happier "still kiddos" era? Take a time machine and go to the year 1990. Or 1977. I would see my siblings as teens. I'd have a couple of brothers at home again. And I would also see my sissy. And you would have on a pair of bell bottoms and a striped sweater that I saw in one of those old pictures in that photo album. You are shining in your vibrant youthful gorgeousness. A lithe woman with a brood of kids flocking her. And I'd lay beside my docile yet humongous black cat Bootsy who slept on my palette on the floor in protective mode.

Dad would be at work at one of the many careers he was skilled in. He was both Jack of All Trades and Master of All of Them. He could do so many things well.

Those were times without any technology. No interruptions of thought. Not a manufactured reason to leave the room, except a phone call on the rotary.

We were together and actually enjoyed one another. Just people being true to themselves. Living in real-time.

Maybe one day we may have the ability to revisit our past lives. But would we desire to return to our present? Maybe we would sacrifice our present for our past if that meant being together again.

The beauty of loving someone so much is that you'll carry them beyond their earthly presence. These memories will be all I have to provide me comfort in the painful and teary moments. Those are many, because if you've known loss, you also have a hole that never quite closes. Sometimes, it gapes wider than a crater, and it is one that we cannot imagine sewing shut.

Somehow, it belongs where it is. A part of our new normal. One we carry through every day. And solace can be tough to find when your chest carries such weight as a devastated human heart holds.

The opening that exists in the heart is the ultimate price we pay for love. And I could never have too much time with her. It was never enough. And far too little time to be your daughter. And Dad is also gone. He left before you and did the years fly by us all. 2010 seems almost historical. At least in a world that travels thousands of miles in a second. It leaves you behind. Then standing behind a wall of loss.

Distance between the living years and that gap of time erased in the past. When time seems to stand still in its quietude. And you weep for this cavernous suffering.

The period that comes after that much too final date and today's date just keeps getting longer as time speeds on that journey to infinity.

This is time's hourglass emptied. And without warning, you are parentless.

I, a Daddy's girl have been in a reflective mode for over a decade. And was as if my right-hand man evaporated into thin air. I was on pause. I was fragile as a porcelain cup. Alzheimer's took the beauty of his mind from us too soon. And when I saw him hurting, I hurt so much. Letting him go was the hardest thing for us to do.

It was so hard to see my mother in a constant state of grief. She had that hole that won't close. It was something so passionate about this love they shared. It was also apparent that our family would come to terms with living with gaping wounds.

I loved Daddy. I wanted to do so much to honor him. I needed to make sure that they knew he was incredible. In that outpouring, I had to dedicate something to him. I needed to be part of a service that memorialized him as an active participant. Not sitting still and silent in the grief of it.

I was prematurely placing myself in a position of emotional strength. And would soon collapse beneath it.

I poured myself into a classical piece at his remembrance/funeral service. I am a saxophonist as well as a writer. That was my last public performance. "Adagio in D." Those sounds are with me today as my love letter to him. A final performance. If I had to have one last time to play for him, it was best being shared. I wanted it to be emotionally connected to anyone in the room, for others.

Maybe that is why I had to stop. That was my personal moment and I opened my heart so soon that I exposed the tiny cracks. How much that bond meant to me.

I thought I was stronger than I was. I never stopped to check on my emotional wellness. I forgot to remember.

That happens when you love someone. I made the same mistake with Mom. To forget to be fragile and then suddenly it hits you immediately.

I forgot to break down because you were watching me and needed my strength to show. I had to wear this mask. It is okay to break down. Maybe it is so honest that you feel selfish in that honesty. Our parents don't expect perfection. They want us.

I was exposed emotionally. Not as a musician. But also as a daughter. And I guess I put the two together and figured I overshared. Talent is way cooler when your parent gives you those "thumbs up" and champions you. I relied on this to grow in my love for the arts. Their approval shaped how I chose to make the arts my first love.

Mom, you always applauded my musical inclination. You played piano so well. I loved hearing those rare moments at the keys. I never picked up that gift. But I bought several keyboards anyway.

Dad, you loved music for music appreciation's sake. You were not a tune carrier. But a tune lover.

When I knew I had to rely on my own voice, I went silent. I turned that joy off from myself and others.

It may have been self-punishing and unkind to me because I deserved to embrace what I loved if I lost who I loved.

It was a lesson in grief that is imprinted within my spirit. I danced with being sad forever. How could I be okay when my dad left me all by myself? To try my best to keep my mom's spirit uplifted as well. To rely on one another to lean on when we wanted to break down. To fall short of being able to be the right amount of comfort to her ailing heartbreak.

It took giving up and stopping my music, what I loved most, to realize that he did not want me to make myself emptier to remember him. He wanted me to instead fill myself with beautiful shared moments and what he admired about me coming to the forefront of my life.

My appreciation for my father is why I write now. He always encouraged my writing. Those high school term papers paid off. That "burning the midnight oil", as he called it. And the old-fashioned typewriter on the coffee table. As my parents retired to bed, I feverishly hammered out my version of meaningful content.

I am glad that neither of them stepped in to rescue me, nor inform me of any ideas. They allowed me to think independently and rely on my own knowledge. I became a storehouse of useless trivia. And sharpened my curiosity.

But in every aspect of my life, they both were equally bulldog and rescuer. I was as protected as wearing a bullet-proof shield.

They were always advocating for me. For my family. I learned how to advocate by their example.

I didn't expect to say goodbye to you, Mom. Suddenly one year of the world standing still in a pandemic became a year afterward that I am standing still in my parent's illness and resulting medical mayhem. It was a flurry of emotions brought to the surface. You needed solid solutions in your health journey. With desired results that never came to fruition.

I cannot explain it all, except I was spinning. I witnessed all you faced so valiantly. And I wanted you to fight so hard. And have all the support and means for the battle ahead. And the ship was sinking. And I went down with the ship as you faded from our world.

You did all you could do. And you needed me to rise to any challenge. And would do that 1000 times over.

I have wondered why so often. "How could I be left here to fend for my own emotional strength when you impacted me so much? That you and I were glued together. How can that break apart into a million tiny pieces? "

I am exhausted by the questions that I could ask. And have already asked silently.

Your tenderness and your compassionate soul are what I never wish to lose in the hallows of memories erased. I plan to fight to keep the beautiful pieces of you alive.

"Though life moves so fast, I promise to take you with me. You will know you're not forgotten, ever."

She will survive within me. She has a voice and a sincerity that resonates in all I do. In who hope to be. She is always a part of me.

To say the least, I'm heartbroken. A year has zoomed by without a mother, and I am in the midst of that aftermath. To be taken under the current and washed away by loss, by grief. I am not sure how I made it without her. Just to carry on by waking up, then placing one foot slowly before the other is the one thing I can be absolutely sure of. This certainty may be enough to see me through this journey.

Loss is so hard because it is the permanent change of your beautiful reality.

A mother's love lasts forever. Of that I am certain. I am loved. I will give this love to my kids and my husband. We will carry her love with us.

If you have experienced the loss of a parent, or like me, both parents, your heart is probably quite heavy during the holidays. I offer my sincere heart of understanding and love to you and yours. I also send you my wishes that you will enjoy or at least get through the season in memory of the beauty and joy they gave you during their impactful living years. Our time is short in comparison to what we most wanted. Forever and a day is not ours to claim for ourselves or those we love the most.

Love and loss are interconnected. I am learning how to live in this disconnected connection. I am a new person, learning how to feel in a new way. I am reminded that pain and life coexist.

And our parents are our treasures. Uniquely ours.

When we lose possessions, we search for them. It's natural. Then seek out some replacement. For this, there is no way to make another. Or create a copy. That mold was way too precious to not break and shatter in pieces when they left our lives.

Can we take their entirety along in our journey throughout life or will we look for breadcrumbs to recall and remember them? Will they become a confusing jumble as I grow older and perhaps dim somehow?

I fear not being able to remember them.

Can their stories outlast time?

I wish for the ability to expand my brain's storage capacity. I don't want to lose anything else of theirs. I have already misplaced or lost a lifetime's worth of artifacts and keepsakes.

A fire devastated our family home and took many relics of both parents in its wake. I don't have many salvaged items except what my mind has stored away.

The price we paid for this familiar bond is to miss them for an eternity. To grieve the love. To make that love matter no matter what comes. Perhaps their love can make the world somewhat better with them as the center of the fervent need to change it.

They move us as much today as ever. They will show up at their grandkids' special occasions if we bring them to the table. Speak them back into life as more than faded photos on the mantle, but remarkable people who continue to show up for you.

It is up to us to ensure they don't disappear.

Our parents are always alive in our hearts and exist within our legacies. As we continue to live on passionately to celebrate and share their lives with others.

Happy Holidays and Happy Birthday Mother. Keep shining that beautiful light. Dad, you are still the twinkle of my eyes.

You are missed and loved always.

Stephanie Ann Marley