Dear Mom,
This is for you. You always encouraged me to express myself through writing. As a child, I would share my colorful dreams with you over breakfast, and you would urge me, “You should write these down.” Your support was unwavering; you gifted me journals during pivotal moments of my life, like when I danced in France at 16 and spent a summer abroad. Each new entry was an adventure waiting to unfold, yet I often found myself too distracted to commit those stories to paper. I even began a journal titled “A Year in the Life of a Bride,” intending to gift it to you on my wedding day, but I abandoned it after just a few entries—too frustrated with myself to mention it to you.
This blog has become my sanctuary. It doesn’t require an epic narrative or filled pages; it’s simply about capturing a thought each day. It’s been a month since you returned to your eternal home, and I miss our daily interactions. Still, I recognize that you are now where you need to be. Over the last two years, as you faced an insurmountable challenge, I walked alongside you, fully aware that reaching the peak was unattainable. The lesson you imparted throughout my life was clear: there was no false hope. We knew that forever was not feasible, yet the desire for more time was everything.
You have been climbing your mountain long before I came into the world. Whenever there was a choice between resting or pushing forward, you always chose the latter. You fought valiantly against adversity, sacrificed for those you loved, and found comfort in your many artistic talents. Now, as this cruel illness has taken its toll, I hope you can pause and appreciate the view from where you stand; you have ascended so far, and it must be breathtaking. Now, dear mother, it is time to rest, knowing you have given your all.
Recently, while preparing for a trip, I felt your presence in every task. I cleaned the house, ensuring everything was in order for Christian, my husband, who struggles when I’m away. I folded sheets for a guest arriving during my absence, a thought I might not have had in the past. Perhaps it took becoming a mother myself to truly understand the importance of these little things, or maybe it was the loss of you—my guiding light—who would have gently reminded me of such matters.
In your honor, I baked banana bread, unsure if you would recognize it or even me. I cherish the moments we shared in the kitchen, where you taught me your secrets before the illness intervened. It has taken me nearly two years to perfect the recipe, and while I won’t claim it’s the best, it evokes the essence of home and you. Each time I make it, I feel your love woven into the very ingredients. The kids, Veronica and Frankie, helped me stir the mixture, and I find myself wondering if I was ever this engaged in our kitchen when I was younger.
I recall waking up to the aroma of freshly baked banana bread, battling my sister for the end piece, while you would come in and cut the other end off. I don’t remember the process of making it, only the delightful moments that followed. As I wrap each loaf in plastic and foil, I find comfort in the traditions you instilled in me.
I prepared myself for the possibility that you might not recognize me during my visit, given how much you sleep now. Thankfully, we had moments where we saw each other. You needed some care, so I treated you to a manicure and pedicure. You never indulged in such luxuries for yourself, but you always made sure your hands and feet were beautiful. It was heartwarming to bond over those moments, especially during your last visit.
Today, you struggled to say “I love you,” a poignant reminder of the past two years. Each morning, I awaited your words as a sign of a good day. Sometimes I would need to prompt you, and other days, even that was too much. Today, I told you not to worry about saying it; I already know how you feel. You looked relieved, but I could see the sadness in your eyes. I share that sadness, knowing this disease has been unforgiving and has taken away so much time. I am afraid of living without you. I will carry you with me in my heart, teaching Frankie, Veronica, and our newest addition how to create your beloved banana bread. I hope it will connect us, just as you have connected with me.
I hope Dad can read this to you—maybe some words will resonate. We both know how emotional we are, often tearing up at the simplest things. I’ve spent my life pursuing my dreams, much like you did. What I’ve realized is that it’s not about reaching the summit but about how we navigate the journey. That is your legacy, and it’s the greatest lesson I have learned from you. You have always been loved, and I hope you understand just how extraordinary you are.
In summary, this letter encapsulates my profound love for you, Mom. It reflects on our memories, the lessons you’ve taught me, and the legacy you will always leave behind. As I continue to navigate life, I carry your spirit with me, sharing it with the next generation.
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