My mother died last week. In going through some of her papers I found letters I’d written her that she’d saved, along with some cards I made. Among the letters, one, in particular stood out, written when I was 25, which was a long time ago.
While reading it, I was struck by how much of the content had not changed. It was a thank you note, but not for anything materialistic. Rather, I thanked her for the wonderful qualities, ones she, wittingly or not, passed onto me. These included, but definitely weren’t limited to, instilling in me the importance of a sense of humor, independence, sensitivity, and the certainty of her love for me.
(In looking at the Halloween card I made, I realize she also imparted an appreciation for mysteries.)
My mom was also my closest friend. The only time I recall that not being the case was when I was 13. That age explains it all. Otherwise, we laughed a lot, shared details of our lives once I moved away from home as a young adult and ever since. We spoke by phone almost daily – until about six weeks before she died. Talking on the phone was difficult for her, so the conversations practically ceased. I think that’s when the grieving process started for me.
I was with her when she died. I’m glad that card wasn’t the only time I expressed my appreciation for all she gave me. I’m saddened I can’t keep letting her know.
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