Dear Mom,
I hope you know I wanted to visit to show you how hard I was working on becoming nice. I'm so sorry I didn't make it before the cancer got you, and I'm more sorry the cancer got you at all.
Now you twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Aww, how I wonder what you are, now.
Lovingly and positively,
- Your Flamboyant, Disorganized Child
what does the word mother mean to you? to me it means hurt. how can you claim you love me so much, yet every time i reach out you smack my hand away. who is the parent here, you or i? why would you insist that you only want the best for me, yet always turn around the second i truly need you? what was the point of bringing me into this world if you were only ever going to hurt me more than the entire world could. instead of the first one to lift me up, you were the first one to bring me down. how fucking dare you. how fucking dare you ruin me.
Mom,
Sometimes I catch myself looking too closely at the lines around your eyes. The way they paint your skin. I find them beautiful, this sign of age and love and life. An art piece designed by God and life and trials and happy moments. I try to remember when your skin was smooth. I can only see it in old photographs. I wonder what I will look like after living like you. Everyone always said I looked like you. An almost perfect match. It never felt that way. You are far too perfect. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too funny. Too much of everything I want to be and everything I will never be.
I catch myself remembering when I was younger. The moments when I was so small they may have been dreams. Everything was always loud. Too much to do. Not enough time for anything. I watched you. The way you ran about the house. Watching children. Cleaning messes. Cooking dinner. Making calls. Answering the door. I watched and followed. I wanted to learn. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t like the way you sighed into Dad’s arms when he came home. The way you seemed to disappear until one of us cried long enough for you to return. I tried to soothe them myself. It never worked, until it did.
They listened to me. My little brothers were soothed by the words I copied from you. I learned which books they liked best. My older brothers were tired and stressed. I learned the best way to make them laugh using your voice. I felt like you. I liked making them happy and I liked the way you smiled more often. Your wrinkles became more pronounced with bright eyes instead of tears.
I liked to be like you. I wanted to be like you. Until I didn’t. Surrounded with messes I didn’t make. Children that weren't mine. Food I couldn’t prepare. Calls I was terrified to make. Doors I refused to open. I became angry. I didn’t want to be like you. I felt like another mother. Another parent for siblings older and younger. I hated that I had your eyes. I hated that I had your voice. I hated that I shared your responsibility. But there was some light in your eyes, some of your laughter through the house. You were brighter in a natural way. You went out with Dad. You had time for friends I'd never met before. I could handle everything. I promised you. I really could.
And I did. I handled it all. I wanted to make your life easier. Juggling two jobs; one far too thankless and wageless. I could make it easier, even if it made me hate you a little more every day. I would make your job easier, but I wasn’t made to be a mother. Not yet anyway. From baby dolls and bottles to growing boys and homework in what felt like seconds. A stupid path I chose. I could feel myself crumbling into something I wasn’t. I looked too much like you, but I had a hatred that not even I could comprehend.
It wasn’t your fault. You tried. You really did. I insisted on it and you were tired. If I wanted to step up, who were you to say no? You and Dad could barely handle it on your own. I wasn’t going to let any of your efforts go to waste. I had promised myself and God. You would know you were loved and appreciated. My teacher taught me that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. You deserved more than just flattery.
I promise you it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes I still get angry at everyone, but never you. You were doing your best. I could never blame you.
And I still remember watching you, wanting to be you. I still want to be you. Maybe I’ll take a little break before becoming a mother though. I don’t think I’ll be as good as you. I’ll never have your warmth or your smile or your patience or your kindness. I think I lost it on my way here. But I have my first wrinkle. It’s next to my right eye. I saw it in a mirror. It’s more of a crinkle, but I noticed it when you said a joke. I know you said it just to make me laugh. To make me feel better. To make me feel like a kid again. To say sorry again for everything you couldn’t do for me before. You said you could never apologize enough. I told you once was enough, but I’ll take the extra laughter and the extra smiles. They remind me of yours just like the wrinkle of happiness around my eye.
I wanted to be like you too young. I still want to, but now I think I understand. You were never your responsibilities or your duties or your relationships. You were the scent of apples. You were the color green. You were your red hair. You were the upturn of your lips. You were your love of sewing. You were your many baking ventures. You were the person who loved shrimp. You were your kind words. You were your laughter, the kind so full and loud that everyone can’t help but laugh too. But most importantly you were the wrinkles forming on your skin, etching every happy moment of your life into a tapestry.
My tapestry is just beginning. My motherhood is not quite here. My wrinkles are just starting to form. I want to be like you. I want to be myself, amplifying every little gift you give me. You gave me life, sorrow, and happiness. You gave me everything I am. I only hope that I can live up to it all. But I know what you’ll say. You don’t care as long as I’m me, as long as I’m happy. I love you for that. I love you for every mistake you made, every lesson you taught me, and for every moment you made me smile.
Mom, I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Though my childhood wasn’t perfect and neither was you, you were the best mother for me. You were everything I could have asked for and more. I love you and I can’t wait to see the rest of your wrinkles.
Love,
Your Daughter
When I was boy I always wanted to live with my mother thinking I would be "happy". I assumed The Most High gave me what I asked for however it was nothing how I pictured it in mind. At first it was okay small talk getting to know one another. However, it didn't last long before the accusing, and arguing began. (Mind you I was a early-teen at the time). I went from wanting to see her to not wanting to be around her. Again I assume The Most High heard me again because I was kicked out sent into the system. For years I was good until my mother wanted to enter my life again. Mind you I still remember what happened and I simply didn't want to but was forced to at the time being a late-teen. Being in my 20s I lost my job due to Covid-19 happening and lost my apartment due not being to move due to covid restrictions. I reluctantly called her for help but my mother did help. Let me stay with her until I moved and got another job. I love my mother but her tendencies keep me away because I know her true nature how she is why she's that way etc ... But I advise that all grievances only matter while alive. Be grateful to your parents/guardians the world can be harsher without them. Ups and Downs and Flat- Lined.
Wish it Were Different
Mom,
I'm sorry, from the bottom of my heart, for the pain I've put you through. Your first born succumbed to the pleasures and tragedies of the world. I've been addicted to horrors. My heart has only known pain and disappointment in the face of love. I've had no choice but to make solitude my best friend. How terrible it is to watch your child suffer, unable to do anything for them. You taught me kindness, compassion, and empathy, so I know you've felt my pain as if it were your own. And knowing that breaks my heart even further. I promise it was never intentional. I hope you never know just how awful I feel knowing you've suffered because of my actions.
I've gotten through unspeakable battles that you will never know about, but understand that I have become stronger because of them. I am wiser and even more compassionate from those things, and it is from your example that I was able to emerge from hell with even more love and empathy for the world. I hope that makes up for all the pain and tears that have fallen because of me. I hope you understand the love I feel for you even though you couldn't be there to help me or hug me when I needed it most. I cry every night hoping you don't hate yourself because of that. My son, your grandson, will be stronger because of it all. All because of you. I love you so much.
Love always,
James
Mom, Do You Remember…
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the Mother’s Day cards I gave you when I was little? I hope not. Because when Dad was grocery shopping, he bought them from a discount rack, and gave them to me and my brothers to give to you. And I don’t know where he got those vats of cheap perfume that he gave you. But you always thanked us.
That reminds me. Do you remember that you always made me thank an aunt for sending a gift? You would call one of your sisters on our rotary dial phone and say that I wanted to tell her something. I would take the receiver and cram all my words together – “Thanks for the present. Here’s Mom.” – and give the phone back to you. My brothers did the same thing. But you never stopped making us say thanks.
Do you remember picking up the phone and dialing a number when my brothers and I were bad? You said into the receiver, “Hello, Bad Boys Home, I have a pickup.”
Do you remember pounding meat on the kitchen counter to stretch the slab into meals for ten? Do you remember giving us haircuts in the kitchen to save money? Do you remember playing piano in the living room and calling out chords so we could strum along on guitar? Do you remember holding grandchildren?
Sorry for asking all these questions, but when last I saw you in the memory wing of the assisted living home, sometimes you did not remember your sons’ names. I just wonder if you got your memory back after you passed away.
That’s okay if you do not recall all these events. My brothers and I are keeping your memories for you.
Love,
Sandlot
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the nights we would spend, sitting in the living room, hallmark movies on TV, talking about life and everything in between? I miss the ability to be that carefree. Do you remember laughing at the things my sisters and I did as children? You would brush off your giggles, saying that I’d understand when I was older, when I had my own children.
But I’m older now, and I don‘t think I’ll ever understand.
Are you disappointed in me?
I never wanted to be a mother. But now I’m stuck on the other side of the gap, and I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. My life is so much different than yours was.
Am I living up to your expectation?
You say you are proud of me, and I know you are, but I can’t help but wonder if you wish for more.
As a child, you were my sun. My thoughts and plans and ideas all revolved around your opinion, your approval. I think part of me is still stuck in that orbit. You were my hero, my super-mom, and I am just here- following in none of your footsteps. What am I supposed to do?
I love you.
My Mother
You know when you're growing up and you think your parents are superheroes because they can literally do anything. You look up to them and want to be just like them when you grow up. That's how I saw my mother, she was amazing. She took care of seven kids (along with my dad), she cooked and cleaned and worked and even volunteered. She made everything look effortless. It wasn't till I got older that I realized that she had her own struggles and secrets. She had not technically lied to us but she wasnt really honest either. I guess that's what a parents job is, to keep the bad away from their children, to never let them know pain. It didn't work, if you were curious. I wondered how she kept silent all those years, maybe the turmoil of hiding the truth is what drove her mad. She gradually fell into a state of depression, losing the light that was inside of her. How could I fix someone who didn't want to be fixed? Someone who ignored that her castle walls were crumbling down around her. Just like my mother, I ignored what was happening to her, not because I didn't care. I was young and didn't know how the world worked. Maybe I was stupid and just didn't want to face the truth that I was slowly losing her to her sickness. She did things I didn't understand, hurt herself over and over. I always wondered if she was escaping her demons or her family. Maybe both? As the years went on things got worse. My siblings and I would joke that she would go on her yearly vacations, her ’ME TIME ". In actuality she was in behavioral health facilities undergoing treatments. Again, if you're curious they never worked, not for long anyways. At the time I really didn't have faith in God, I suppose I was upset with him for everything that had happened to my family, as if he was in control of our actions. I wanted someone to blame, to hate because I couldn't do that to my mother, I still looked up to her or the her that I remembered. I didn't notice the drug use at first, unlike my siblings I was oblivious to these things. I used to say I was sheltered from the world but that's not true. My brothers and sisters knew the world so why didn't I? The truth, I was scared to live so finding out even more secrets about my mother had messed with me. I pretended that everything was okay, that we were a happy family. I imagined it, I must have because the memories I had didn't fit the memories of my siblings. My mother would have angry outbursts, wailing like a banshee. Perhaps predicting her own death or the many attempted ones. Time had passed yet again and she had gotten to the point that she needed shock therapy, she lost some of herself during that time, forgetting bits and pieces of the past and present. And again more time had passed and so had one of my brothers, her baby. She wasn't the same, masking pain with silence. After he was gone, I thought we had become close, we talked and laughed, we did things that normal mothers and daughters did but was it real? I don't remember telling my mother that I loved her, even as a child, so I started. Shy and timid, afraid that she wouldn't say it back and she didn't but that was okay because that's how our family was. We didn't say I love you or even hug, at least I think we didn't, my memories blurred. Towards the end when she got sick I begged God to save her. “Just this once please, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do better,” I pleaded to him but nothing. She was moved to hospice, apparently she had developed a flesh eating bacteria that would affect her face. The doctor's plan was to cut half of it off, her last words to me were to not let them take her face. I cried and cried and cried, I had never been without my mother. I had become codependent on her presence alone. My father had put me in charge of her medical decisions since she had become unresponsive. I was young and naive, how was I supposed to decide my mothers fate? I sat with her, talked with her. I knew she wasn't coming back but I wasn't ready to be alone even if I still had my father and siblings. They had significant others and children, lives of their own and I somehow remained the same, stuck at home afraid of the world. I didn't want her stuck here like me so I let her go, telling her we’d be fine and I thought we would be but we weren't. We were broken and lost. I foolishly thought my family was safe and perfect but I was wrong. Even now after all these years, after the passing of my mother and father I'm still stuck and alone, afraid of the world but I still believe in her. For putting up with the pain for so many years. For surviving every attempt. For not letting the drugs be her downfall and overcoming them. For taking care of us even after hers will was dwindling.
Seasons of Motherhood
I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.
I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"
There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.
Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.
Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?
I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.
I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.
I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.