A letter to my mother I never sent

Someone I trust said this might help someone else...

12/5/18 @ 3:25pm (9 months after my father died, 16 months before her own exit)

Dear Mother,

You now ask, "What else?" with added insistence after I've told you of my work-related duty and obligation tasks accomplished.

You want to know the deeper stuff. Now, you don't have "mind" at all, for the surface stuff. I hear you seeking depth, love, inspiration, and satisfaction.

Like Dad, you wish me there in person, in our jammies together, relaxing on this rainy day.

I would love to push off my bed the books, Kleenex box, calendar, three sets of eyeglasses, four remotes, and a rolled up blanket to make room for you. When many days I have to be out in the world taking care of business for you and the family, I cherish these now rare days I need not put out so much effort to interact and navigate the logistics. These rare days I can pay attention to my own necessary details and take the extra time to take care of myself. 

This is the voice of mine you want most to hear, these words congregating in my mind, begging on knees to be released through fingers. 

Yesterday we were able to get you a comfy black and white knit sweat suit with a gray t-shirt that said IMPERFECTLY PERFECT on it for free. A December, three or four years ago, you'd asked me to pick up a pair of elegant dressy black cocktail pants you'd put aside for me for my birthday, when you were out of town. I went to the Banana Republic store, as directed, in Belmont Shore. I got their credit card. I have learned how to charge on that card and get a revolving (practically) free wardrobe with cash reward dollars as I lose the weight I've always wanted to lose. 

Are you wearing the new outfit you were pleased we found? In the Gap dressing room, you told me, "I hate being this age. I hate aging." You show me your swollen feet. I remember your concierge doctor said nothing when you reported your mind was getting less sharp and the ankle bloating caused by the seven medicines prescribed since September's blood clot in the brain, that you don't remember. You'd love that alliteration. Blood clot in the brain. I make an appointment for you with my functional medicine guy who knows east and west and how they influence each other for best healing.

You love how much I care for you, can see your needs and hear your unspoken wants.

I see the pain cross your face when making a wish on the lit candle with family all around at your 84th birthday last month. I felt I could hear your wish to go quickly. How you brush such a thought aside because it isn't proper or is pessimistic.

Perhaps you just missed Dad. I think not.

I think you straddle both worlds now.

You want to hear my writing as we shared excitedly in the past up until about four years ago, about the time I took over Dad's job. You don't understand what I do for you.

I know you want the depth and love from me that was much calmer and more honest in the past but now it seems all words are essential.

I tell you I love you and you tell me you love me.

Sometimes, it feels like sunshine on a cloudy day. Sometimes, like being protected by the shade of a huge oak tree during a hundred-degree heat wave.  

                            Your inquisition, "What else?" inhibits my description. 

I’ve been working on a substack for weeks I believe is the beginning of what I’m really here to write about… It’s taken me a year and a half to begin to get comfortable with how this works and there is still so much I don’t know, can’t glean, grok, or get. I expect that one to come this next week!