Hey Madre.
Usually, in these letters, I update you on my life, but mostly my life has been the same. I have been talking to you in my head more; of all of the years you’ve been gone, this is the one I could have used a conversation with you the most. In lieu of updates, here are some things I’ve thought about and wish I could say to you :
I am surprised by how suffocating loneliness is. I think you knew that feeling. Did you ever wonder if our personalities of social butterflies and professional flirters is an accurate description of who we were (are? I don’t think I really know how to flirt anymore but I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle), or are we just living in a constant state of trying to stave off loneliness? This seems like a question for my therapist and not a dead woman and the people reading this, but maybe someone who knows me well enough will offer their thoughts. You’d pretend this question was ridiculous. “Professional flirters, Alecia?! We’re friendly, and everyone just likes us!”:: Cue laugh that means you know you’re full of shit::
I have been writing more. Not as much as I should be, but more. I have so many ideas, and I feel like not one of them will amount to anything. I do have a thing I’m working on that I think is good, but that’s probably because it’s mostly cathartic for me and not actually something people will pay money to read. I wish you could read it.
It still boggles my mind that our little Becky is a mom. She is a mom in many ways, just like you, but better. Which I know would make you so proud.
Matt and Barb’s house is almost completed. You would be in awe of it. In awe of your son. When I walked through it not long ago, he said, “these will be the kids’ rooms” I silently thought, I know Ma heard that. He still owns your shoppe, and whenever he mentions it, his voice softens. Like you are still the true owner, guiding him, and he is a guest that just pays the bills to keep your legacy alive.
I recently came across a sentence in your journal that I’m sure I read previously, but it hadn’t registered. I desperately wish I could have hugged you at the moment you wrote it and tell you what I know to be true: You were enough, and loving someone who couldn’t ( or more accurately, wouldn’t ) be with you fully does not mean you weren’t deserving of that kind of love. But also, if you loved him, despite that messiness and complicated circumstances, that’s ok too. Life is not a Rom-Com ( no one ever writes Rom Coms about that kind of love—maybe I will).
I can’t stop thinking about being a mom. Sometimes I think I am a good friend because I have all this unused nurturing energy I should have used on my children. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a grandchild. I thought I was over feeling guilty about this, but I’m not. I don’t think I ever will be. I’m always going to feel like my child could have saved your life, no matter how irrational that is.
I used to hate that I was dating Jay when you died, as if dating someone who was better suited for me would have shielded me from the pain. But actually, he was exactly right because his kids brought me so much joy at a time when I really needed it.
They are the reason I was meant to be where I was. Especially Emma.
She came to me for advice once, an issue she was having with one of her friends at school. She was at an age where she was almost too old for snuggling, but she leaned against me and told me her problem. After she finished, I said, “What did your mom say?” and she said, “I wanted to ask you.” It was and still is one of the most important moments of my life. I panicked and thought, “Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up”. If I got this wrong, I was sure I would cease to exist; at that moment, it felt like my entire purpose in life was making sure I got this right so she would be safe and happy. Afterward, she thanked me and hugged me, and went to bed. It is maybe (probably! maybe! probably! who can say!) the closest I will ever come to being a mom, and that breaks my heart a little but the memory also makes me really happy; a few years after I left Pennsylvania, she messaged me on Instagram and told me she missed me and my I’m never going to have kids grinch heart grew 500 sizes. I still think about Emma all the time and wonder how she's doing and will never, ever stop loving her, even if I never see her again. If that’s the most “Mom” I’ll ever be, I can live with it.
I’m starting to forget the sound of your voice. But I’ll turn my head and see my tanned and freckled shoulders and see a replica of you there. I thought I got my complexion from Dad, but anytime I glance over my shoulder, it is you I see. My hands are starting to look like yours, too, but I think that’s just because I am getting older ( sorry.)
Year Six feels like such a weird year to feel like I’m drowning without you. But maybe I’d feel like I was drowning anyway, and I just wish you could be the one to throw me a life raft. Maybe you can do some weird ghost shit and throw me one.
For some reason, the other day, I was thinking about the family meeting we had when you told us Pappy was dying. I was what, 8 or 9? And I was taking notes of everything you said. I can picture the yellow notepad; “Cancer - In Brain, not getting better.” It made me laugh recalling this; such a writer thing to do, document this horrible moment if I needed to recall it later. I also thought maybe I’d always been preoccupied with death, that maybe that didn’t just start with you. But upon further reflection, I think I’ve actually always been preoccupied with life. We treat death as though it is a separate entity, even though they are inextricably linked. I’ve certainly gotten more morbid—a thing I like about myself actually—speaking plainly and honestly is better than skirting around the messy details.
I’m mostly living in Delaware now ( I guess that’s an update!), and I think about you every time I drive through Dewey. This is a pleasant surprise, that places I have been to many times without you will always make me think of you if we went there, as if no visit mattered except the one we did together —Dewey, The Outer Banks, the antique mall in Jacobus.
I know I always tell you to tell Mam hi and I love her at the end of these but tell her next year, on the anniversary of a decade without her, she’s getting her own letter too.
I miss you every day, and sometimes twice a day. Xoxo.