Tuesday, August 25, 2009

An Open Letter to My Mom

Dear Mom,
I saw you a couple days ago in the aisle of the store. You were motoring by the paper products in one of those scooters. Your oxygen tank was in the basket along with two, green cans of decaf coffee.

I walked up to you and wrapped my arms around your shoulders and held on. They were bonier and sharper than I remember. I cried. You sat there.

You look more tired and sick than over a year ago, when I last saw you. You handled my son's fear of the cart and oxygen tank by explaining what they were for. He said, "I renember when you didn't have dat."

Do you remember when you didn't have dat? It was when we talked. It was when you actually would return phone calls and even, periodically, initiate a call yourself. It's when you remembered who we, your children, were and where we lived. It was before.

Before what, Mom, I cannot figure out. I have worked for the last year to forgive and understand how you exited our lives practically and emotionally. Please forgive me, for whatever sin, whatever slight I have committed.

I don't want to walk down that same aisle and have a stranger walk up to me and offer their condolences. Offer their prayers since you are gone. You would be gone and I wouldn't have known and wouldn't have been there. I want to know. What you are doing, where you are. Not because I want anything from you. For one simple reason, you are my mom.

I hope to see and talk with you again. not by accident, but on purpose.

Please take care,
Your Daughter


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