Dear Mildred

Dear Mildred;

It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. The last time was…last year? Maybe? When did I go to that spiritual reading? The one you would have laughed at me for attending?

I miss you. I miss seeing you every year. I have my favorite story about you memorized: the time you cut your hair into a pixy cut just to rebel against your dad; because even when you were a teenager, you weren’t going to let Society’s expectations of you dictate how you would live your life. You wanted the haircut, so you got it; and you rocked it for the next few decades.

There are questions I should have asked you when I had the chance. What’s the secret to life? You lived for one hundred and four years, you married multiple times, and you passed away with a smile on your face. How did you accomplish all that? How could it have been that you never felt old? Was it really just brandy and makeup?

Who am I kidding? You wouldn’t tell me, even if I asked. You always pushed me to make my own decisions. You wanted me to live in the moment, the way you did.

Take a breath. Feed the ducks. Celebrate every birthday, from the first to the hundred and first.

I want to live like that. I’m trying to live like that.

Mildred, I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a few things; just your last name and your haircut. I’m using the name to make movies now. You wouldn’t like the first one, it’s not your taste, but you’d be proud of me anyway. You knew me when I wanted to be a dancer, and then a veterinarian, and then an actor. My mind changed a hundred times. You loved me no matter what my passion was. You were one of the few people in my life who loved me full stop. No matter what my grades were, if I had an attitude on, if I was rambling about nonsense, I was special in your eyes.

You’ve sent me a few signs since you passed away. That first one might be a coincidence; though it is strange that the play my high school chose to put on that year was Thoroughly Modern Millie. It’s also a little odd that the play was announced the day after Mom told me you were gone. Don’t worry, I auditioned for it. I even got a bit part as Gloria. You would have adored my performance! I was the best background player on the stage! I even got reprimanded for upstaging the leading lady.

The second sign? My laptop spontaneously turning on, playing just a few lines of a song, then shutting off? And that little light I saw in the corner?

I already knew you’d gotten to the other side safely. You didn’t have to come back to tell me. I really appreciate it, though.

Sign number three was a doozy. Clever you, you knew I would be disappointed that the psychic medium couldn’t channel you. You knew I would need a pick-me-up. Nice move, having me win a raffle I didn’t enter, sending a bottle of moscato to my table. Even in death, you found ways to surprise me.

I’ve searched high and low. I’ve never been able to find another bottle of that moscato; and no other brand has tasted that incredible.

I’m twenty-three, now. I’m living in New York City, and it’s so hard. It’s hard living alone, building my independence, and figuring out who I am. It’s especially hard not being able to call you. I just want to talk to you one last time. I want us to sit in your bedroom at the nursing home, exchanging updates on our lives. I want you to see how much your little girl has grown up. I’ve fallen in love twice, I’ve had my heart broken, I’ve graduated college and graduate school.

You’d love this: I’ve decided to name my first-born after your last husband. If it’s a girl, I’ll call her Clementine. If it’s a boy, I’ll call him Clement. Mom told me you were hesitant to let yourself fall in love so late in life. You didn’t know how your children and grandchildren would react to you marrying Clem. I’m glad you chose your own happiness. You deserved to have him in your life. You two were soul mates. That’s why I use Gorley as my professional last name; because you used it. It meant the world to you, so it means the world to me.

I keep your funeral card in my wallet. Looking at it, having it close, gives me the strength to soldier on. I want to live as long as you did, as happily as you did. Even in the days leading up to your passing, whatever was ailing you was nothing more than a stomach bug. You’d be better soon, nothing to worry about. You’d see us soon.

Tell Grandma and Grandpa I say hi. If you see my Grampy and my dad’s mom, share your story with them. I want you all to be friends. I’m expecting you all to be waiting for me when I get there, and I want to see smiles on your faces.

And hey, send another sign when you can. Come and see me.

I love you;

Your great-grandchild, Mickey