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This is the letter I wish I\u2019d written before you died. There are things I wanted to tell you. Things that needed to be said.<\/span><\/p>\n I wish I\u2019d told you how often thoughts of you fill my mind. Sometimes they come when I\u2019m doing something ordinary like washing the dishes. I\u2019ll hear your voice telling me to run some \u201chot, soapy water\u201d and rinse the plates thoroughly, because \u201cthe dishwasher doesn\u2019t have fingers.\u201d It used to bother me because I thought you were admonishing me. But now I think of it fondly. I realize you were trying to teach me something.<\/p>\n There are other things you taught me long ago that I do automatically, like ironing clothes. I line up the seams on the pants and press them one leg at a time. Before I iron a silk blouse, I put a paper bag over it.<\/p>\n Every day I make my bed before I leave, even if I\u2019m running late. At night I try to pick things up in the living room before I go to bed. \u201cIf something happens and the police come, you want your house to look nice,\u201d you said. I used to scoff at this, thinking it was silly, but I find myself tidying up anyway.<\/p>\n The other night as I was cleansing my face before bed, I remembered the array of skin care products you used. I thought Mom wouldn\u2019t like that I\u2019m using cheap drugstore cleanser.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYou get what you pay for,\u201d you would say. Your favorite was Estee Lauder\u2014only the best for you\u2014even though you didn\u2019t need it. You were blessed with beautiful skin.<\/p>\n This morning I was sitting at my vanity \u201cputting my face on\u201d and thinking of you. I remembered the precise way you drew on perfectly arched brows. You were an artist, and your face was your canvas. Every day you created a new piece of work.<\/p>\n When I put on moisturizer, I sweep upward from my neck as you taught me. I usually spend too much time on my brows because I\u2019m trying to get them perfect like yours, but I never can. Sometimes I\u2019ll see myself in the mirror and for a few seconds, I\u2019m startled. I\u2019ll see your blue-green eyes, fair skin, and prominent cheekbones. It\u2019s me, but it\u2019s also you.<\/p>\n Where do you end and I begin, Mom? I\u2019m not sure, because you\u2019ve filled my head and my heart for so long. You own such a large piece of me that it feels like I\u2019m carrying you with me everywhere I go.<\/p>\n I hear you telling me how to make black-eyed peas and cornbread for New Year\u2019s Day.\u00a0 I remember your delicious tomato gravy, which I\u2019ve never been able to duplicate. I can see you standing in the kitchen mixing up tuna salad, using tuna in oil and adding boiled eggs, the consistency and flavor perfect. Sometimes I\u2019ll hear myself telling Wally to make sure he cooks the pork chops thoroughly. Pork must be done! <\/em><\/p>\n These memories are ingrained. They are like grooves on the highway. If I veer across the line, I hear the thump-thump-thump reminding me to get over. To do it your way.<\/p>\n Some days I picture you from long ago. I am 10 years old and you\u2019re in your 30s, your lovely face dewy and barely touched by time, your pretty blonde cloud of teased hair. \u00a0We\u2019re in our avocado green kitchen in Bayshore West, Anchorage, Alaska. There\u2019s a round table with vinyl chairs. Beads hang in the doorway. You\u2019re standing at the counter chopping vegetables for beef stew and humming to yourself. You smell of Youth Dew (Estee Lauder).<\/p>\n I\u2019m in charge of the cornbread. I pour the batter into hot oil in a cast iron pan, until it bubbles, and then finish it in the oven. When it\u2019s done, I flip over the skillet and cut the bread into triangles like a pie. Each piece has a thick crust and moist center. It\u2019s the southern way to make cornbread, handed down from your mother to you to me.<\/p>\n I hear you humming and try to pick up the melody, but there isn\u2019t one. It\u2019s not a song I know; it\u2019s a sound you created, a mild buzzing that went up and down and didn\u2019t land anywhere. It couldn\u2019t be repeated by anyone. It was your song.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t realize then how comforted I was listening to you hum while you worked. You were so focused you probably didn\u2019t know I was watching you, but I was. Hearing you made me a happy girl because you seemed happy. In those moments, you were all right.<\/p>\n Were you really, Mom? In retrospect all these years later, I\u2019m not certain. I want to believe you were at peace, so I tell myself you were. Maybe not joyful but satisfied. Free. Able to breathe\u2014the sadness inside you muted.<\/p>\n I know it\u2019s too late to ask now. You always said I\u2019d wait too long, and you were right.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t bring flowers to my funeral if you didn\u2019t bring them to me when I was alive,\u201d you said. I did send you flowers many times, but I know that wasn\u2019t what you meant. That wasn\u2019t all of it.<\/p>\n I should\u2019ve asked you how you were\u2014ten years or five years or six months ago. Not a breezy \u201cHi, how are you, Mom?\u201d over text or phone, but a deliberate, sit-down, taking your hand and looking into your eyes: \u201cMom, tell me what is going on. How are you doing? What can I do to help you?\u201d<\/p>\n So much wasted time. I could\u2019ve asked two months ago. A week before you died. The day before you died. I had countless chances, but I ignored them.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t ask because I was afraid. I was riddled with fear, Mom, steeped in it. Consumed by it.<\/p>\n I was afraid you\u2019d say you were miserable, and it was my fault. I wasn\u2019t a good daughter. Not now, not ever.<\/p>\n I was afraid you\u2019d say I wasn\u2019t doing enough to help you, and it would be true.<\/p>\n I was afraid you\u2019d expect me to keep coming back no matter what, even when you were not happy with me. Even when you pushed me away.<\/p>\n I was afraid I couldn\u2019t live knowing I was a disappointment to you. Not just something I did, but who I was. Who I still am. The pain and the shame would be too much. I\u2019d keep trying, keep striving to earn your love. Striving and failing.<\/p>\n I was afraid and desperate, Mom. A pathetic, needy 50-something woman still striving for a fantasy\u2014a healthy, nurturing relationship with her mother.<\/p>\n I wanted your love\u2014no, I needed it\u2014so badly, it blinded me. It made me fearful and selfish. I could only see my needs, not yours. My pain, not yours.<\/p>\n It\u2019s been seven weeks since you died, and I live with this question in my mind. It\u2019s a sore that never heals. I\u2019ll think I\u2019m better and then I\u2019ll make oatmeal raisin cookies. Whenever I visited, you\u2019d leave the ingredients on the kitchen counter. I imagine making them for you, taking one warm from the oven and handing it to you on a napkin like a gift. I see you smiling as you bite into it, exclaiming, \u201cLeener! This is delicious! My favorite!\u201d<\/p>\n Or I\u2019ll hear Vince Gill singing \u201cLook At Us,\u201d and see you crying. My heart sore will rip open again, bleeding regret.<\/p>\n Last week I was walking through Dillard\u2019s when they announced free samples of cosmetics. On a whim, I stopped at a counter and let a saleswoman sell me an expensive cream. I felt guilty because it wasn\u2019t Estee Lauder. It was the next counter over. I told myself I\u2019d call you later and ask if you\u2019d tried this other brand. It was high-end so I thought you\u2019d like it, and it was easy for us to talk about shopping and make-up.<\/p>\n Suddenly\u2014as the saleswoman dabbed my face with foundation and prattled on\u2014I felt a sob swelling in my throat and tears pricking my eyes. An image of you flashed before me, the last time I saw you. You looked breakable\u2014so slight your head seemed perched on your body, your legs stick-thin. I took your arm and carefully walked you across the lawn to my car. It was just a short distance, but you were unsteady and winded. Your skin was whisper-thin and papery. It reminded me of Dad\u2019s skin before he died.<\/p>\n When I hugged you, I felt the bones in your back. You were fading away.<\/p>\n We had three good days together, a really nice visit. We went to dinner and sat outside on your swing and chatted like girlfriends. We drank lots of iced tea and I played with Cody. One morning I brought you two glazed doughnuts and sat with you while you ate them. I was so glad to see you eat something.<\/p>\n I showed you videos and pictures of Dad on my phone, some just a few months before he passed away. I played songs I had played when I visited him. But when I got to his favorite, \u201cBreak It To Me Gently\u201d by Juice Newton, you only made it halfway through. Your eyes filled with tears. You said, \u201cStop honey. I can\u2019t stand that.\u201d<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t want to make you sad, so I played an upbeat song I would play for Dad when he cried, \u201cFamily Tradition\u201d by Hank Williams Jr. He would always laugh, and you did too. So did I. It was so good to hear you laugh\u2026 to share that with you.<\/p>\n But the day before I left, you were sad again. I was talking and you started to cry. “What\u2019s wrong, Mom?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re leaving,\u201d you said.<\/p>\n \u201cNot yet, Mom. We still have all day tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n But you weren\u2019t hearing me. You said, \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019ll see you again. I think this is the last time.\u201d<\/p>\n I wish you had been wrong, Mom, but you were right. You were right so many times in my life about so many things I never acknowledged, but this was the hardest one to accept.<\/p>\n Just a few months after that day, I got the phone call no one wants to get. A call that filled me with cold dread when I saw the number because I knew it was bad.<\/p>\n Every day since then, I\u2019ve thought of you. Not just once but all throughout the day. Most nights, I dream about you. I don\u2019t remember much except you\u2019re there. Wally says sometimes I cry and talk in my sleep.<\/p>\n Other times, I wake up feeling distressed. Something feels wrong. I\u2019m unsettled the rest of the day, like a picture askew on the wall. I keep trying to fix it, but it wants to be crooked. I wonder if the Lord is trying to tell me something. Is the picture your life, Mom? Is that what is wrong?<\/p>\n Several nights ago, I dreamed Dad was dying and I was trying to tell him something. You were there, sitting behind me. I couldn\u2019t tell how old you were, but you looked younger and healthier. You were in the background. I was really upset and anxious because Dad\u2019s breathing was labored. His eyes were closed. I didn\u2019t know if he knew I was there. Time was running out and I was near panic. I couldn’t see or hear you but in my mind, you said,\u00a0 \u201cBe sure you tell him now, honey! Hurry!\u201d<\/p>\n This dream haunts me. I don\u2019t understand it because I told Dad everything I wanted to tell him. A few days before he died, I spoke with him. He was in pain but was mostly alert. I told him I loved him and what a wonderful father he was and how Jesus had prepared a place for him. And I said it again on the day he died. I got in the bed and held him while he struggled to breathe. I remember my tears fell on his face and I left them there for a while.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know why Dad was in the dream too, but if God is trying to tell me something about your life, Mom, then I want it to be something good. \u00a0I want to I believe you knew joy. Not all the time, but at least sometimes.<\/p>\n But then I imagine your last day, your last hours, and anguish floods through me. I think of you alone in your apartment, clothes and trash piled up in your bedroom, Cody, your little dog, in the crate next to you. The social worker said you were on the side of the bed. Were you trying to get up? I wonder if you were scared or in pain, not able to get help. I picture you struggling and it\u2019s more than I can stand. I close my eyes hoping to erase the image, but it remains.<\/p>\n I imagine your last moments on this earth, how lonely you were, and how much suffering you carried. The suffering you turned inward, so you smoked constantly and barely ate. The torment you turned outward onto others, so they stayed away. The anguish you tried to numb in so many ways.<\/p>\n I see you sitting in your rocking chair, a glass of tea on the table and a cigarette next to you, the TV blaring some inane show. Only Cody and internet con men to keep you company. Predators trying to take money from a lonely old woman. I know I\u2019m not supposed to hate anyone, but I hate those men. On my last visit, I saw one man’s messages on your phone and your pleading responses. Rage burned inside me. I wanted to hurt him for hurting you.<\/p>\n You used to ask what you should leave me. Did I want your jewelry or clothing or purses? I didn\u2019t like talking about it, but you persisted so I said your photo albums. All those old albums with the pages stuck together and random loose pictures falling out. That was all I could think of then, but now that you’re gone, I’ve thought of something else.<\/p>\n What I most want, Mom, is a do-over. \u00a0I want to rewrite your story like one of my blog posts. I\u2019ll delete the bad and add good. I\u2019ll make it come out better. Your world will be full of lush, blooming colors bursting forth like Oz after Dorothy opens the door. No more black and gray but endless, winding ribbons of color.<\/p>\n I know it’s too late. I know it\u2019s not possible, but it stays in my mind.<\/p>\n Your life would be joyous and full, each day packed with things you wanted to do and people you liked to see. Every week you\u2019d dress up for church. Before the service, you\u2019d go to your Sunday school class and sit with your women friends. You’d all go to lunch,\u00a0 tell stories, and laugh so hard you\u2019d double over. \u201cMaye, you are a riot!\u201d one of them would say.<\/p>\n There was so much to do. You had your weekly book club, your bridge group, and your monthly dinner parties with another group of women friends. There were six of you and each took turns hosting it. I\u2019d joke that your social life was better than mine. Not really a joke either, because it was true.<\/p>\n Your passion for gardening was evident in the array of gorgeous flowers in your backyard. You also liked cooking, especially making casseroles for your church group or a local charity. But all that aside, nothing made you happier than spending time with your family, especially your grandchildren. You\u2019d go to their birthday parties and sporting events. When you got your hair done, you\u2019d talk to your stylist about them non-stop and show her pictures on your phone.<\/p>\n And the rewrite of your story would also be a revision of our story: Mom and Leener, 2.0. There would be no strain between us. No long periods of silence. We\u2019d be best friends, like the mothers and daughters I see in pictures on Facebook, arms entwined, beaming smiles and sparkling eyes.<\/p>\n Twice a month, Wally and I would have dinner at your house. You\u2019d cook something I liked from long ago, spaghetti or goulash or that chicken covered in potato chips you made when I was a kid. Sometimes you\u2019d try out a new recipe on us.<\/p>\n We\u2019d talk every night before bedtime. You\u2019d chat about your day even though we\u2019d already talked a few times. I\u2019d tell you about a woman at work who was giving me a hard time and you\u2019d give me some tips on how to approach her. I\u2019d hear Cody barking in the background. \u201cPatsy\u2019s at the door, sweetie.\u201d you\u2019d say. \u201cWe\u2019re going to make popcorn and watch Steel Magnolias.\u201d But always before we hung up, we\u2019d pray together.<\/p>\n On Fridays, I\u2019d pick you up for our regular outing. Your little yellow house was just down the street from me, so I was over all the time. Usually, we\u2019d go shopping and to lunch. Other times we\u2019d get mani-pedis and have croissants and mochas at our favorite coffee shop. Sometimes we\u2019d wear matching shirts we\u2019d bought the previous week. The barista would say we looked like sisters. \u201cThank you,\u201d we\u2019d both say at the same time, and then we\u2019d laugh.<\/p>\n At least once a month, I\u2019d get a little frustrated trying to reach you because your voicemail box was full. I\u2019d text you but you were always leaving your phone around, so it was easier just to pop by your house. I\u2019d drive up and find you in the yard watering your flowers. \u201cHi Leener,\u201d you\u2019d say, your face bright. \u201cCome inside and I\u2019ll get us some iced tea. I want you to try these peanut butter treats I got from the bakery. They\u2019re delicious!\u201d<\/p>\n Mom, it is seven weeks since your death, and this is what I think about every day. I wish the story I just described had been true, that it was your life. Our relationship. And it would’ve ended this way: I’d see you and tell you again how much I loved you. It would be the last thing you heard before you died. When you put your head on the pillow that night, you’d be at peace. You’d be smiling to yourself as you said your prayers.<\/p>\n But it didn’t happen that way, and I have to accept that I can’t make it something else. So what can I do now?<\/p>\n I can choose to remember how you were three years ago when I went to see you in Illinois. You were better then. We\u2019d just come back from dinner at the Mexican restaurant across the street. You actually ate something, a chicken quesadilla, as did I. I was happy to see you eat. I dropped you at the door of your place. It was raining and I didn\u2019t have a coat. You were wearing a pink and white polka dot raincoat.<\/p>\n \u201cHere Leener, take this,\u201d you said as you handed me your coat. \u201cThe car is far away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo Mom, I\u2019m ok. I don\u2019t want to take your coat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTake it honey,\u201d you said. \u201cYou\u2019re leaving tomorrow and it\u2019s going to rain. You can\u2019t travel without a coat.\u201d<\/p>\n That pink coat hangs in my closet now, your scent long faded even though I still smell it. Whenever I wear it, I remember you, Mom. My heart aches when I think of how little you had that day and how easily you took off your coat and gave it to me.<\/p>\n It’s all I have left of you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" This is the letter I wish I\u2019d written before you died. There are things I wanted to tell you. Things that needed to be said. I wish I\u2019d told you how often thoughts of you fill my mind. Sometimes they come when I\u2019m doing something ordinary like washing the dishes. I\u2019ll hear 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