The Mother Letter

Dear Mother,

Oh, the things I would say to you if you were still here.

First and foremost would be, “I am sorry.” Secondly (and a tight race for first) would be, “Thank you.” Of course, most people would say those things to their mothers. But they wouldn’t have the reasons that you and I have, would they?

I think you know why I’m sorry. And although I said it to you often enough when you were alive and we were trying to superglue our fragile porcelain trust back together, “I’m sorry” didn’t work. I’m not sure why. Then by the time it would have worked, we found we didn’t need it after all. The sins were forgiven, and the hindsight we had made “I’m sorry” insignificant. Trivial. These days, I find that I’d still like to say it to you anyway. Until death’s finality had claimed you, I didn’t know so many things about you. I truly didn’t know how very much you loved me. So the “I’m sorrys” of the past didn’t have the weight they would now. They were the flippant “I’m sorrys,” the ones that meant, “Lay off. I’m trying, can’t you see?” Now five years after becoming a mother myself (and four years after becoming an orphan), my “I’m sorrys” would be full of regret and weight, knowing all the things I did to you that cracked your heart wide open. “I’m sorry” is the repentance I need to give you. This time, I hope you accept it so I can cleanse my heart and soul. I have a childish need to feel your forgiveness, to know you have let the grudges go.

On the heels of “I’m sorry” comes exasperating gratitude in the words, “Thank you.” Oh, Mom. I didn’t know! Really. I thought you gave of yourself because that’s just what you did. I had no idea that you gave of yourself because you had no other choice: we kids sucked it out of you. I had no idea it was the calling of ALL mothers. And I had no idea that you lost yourself in the process. I’ve been fighting that for years now. Not that I don’t want to be a mother like you, but because I’m afraid that if I let the children suck me dry, I’ll have nothing left when they’re gone. So, thank you. For all the nights you spent cleaning up my puke. Thank you for nursing us when breastfeeding wasn’t popular. For staying married to Dad. For revolving around me, my friends and hobbies. Thank you for teaching me to write. For making our house a home. For saying no. For giving me faith. Thank you for letting me have my way. For all the times you helped me spread my wings, even when you knew that doing so meant you were losing me. Thank you for surviving three children, a divorce, your son’s cancer, and your own illnesses. In doing so, you taught me how to be strong.

I didn’t know that when you raised me, you were channeling your own mother. And probably your mother’s mother. Because when you become a mother, you rely on the child-rearing knowledge that you already have, which is your own mother’s rearing of you. I didn’t know this until five years ago, when She came into my life. Now I hope and pray that I can model for her what you modeled for me: strength, grace, friendship, commitment, sacrifice and love.

What I wouldn’t give to ask you if you felt this same way (like you’re losing your mind one day and completely head over heels in love the next). I have a feeling you did feel the same, but I wish you could tell me the stories in your own words. And, oh! How I wish you could meet my daughter and son, and they could meet you. I’d like to hear you say what great kids I have, because they are pretty amazing. They are your continuation, the culmination of the years of frustration and heartache, joy and love you put into civilizing me.

So, I’m sorry, Mom. And I’m also grateful. I am who I am because of you. And my children will be who they will be because of you too. The circle continues, like a big spiral of life. Thank you for linking me to my past, and your past too.

I love you. And I miss you.
Elizabeth