Day Fifty-one: A Birthday Celebration

Some people talk to their departed loved ones at their grave site, while others do so in prayers. For me, I often write them letters when the things I need to say get so backed up in my mind I can no longer hold all of the thoughts at bay. Today is one of those days. This is a Letter to Heaven for my mother Leslie, who died on 7 October 1997.

Dear Mom,

You would have been sixty-four today and I know it would have made you grumpy. You wouldn't have liked getting older at all, but the selfish part of me wishes you'd stuck around longer.

I always get lost in thoughts about you during special times throughout the year; your birthday is the strongest, the ache of your absence almost as raw as that first year I spent without you. It's cold, cold, cold and rainy outside today and reminds me of the day I lost my son, especially since loss was already on my mind. It rained for three days when I miscarried him, and I felt as if even the sky was weeping with the sorrow of his passing. Perhaps today it's weeping for all who have joined you in Heaven. It comforts me to know that he has you and others watching over him, and fills me with joy to imagine all of you watching over us.

The meaning of Christmas has changed for me so much over the years, mom. I remember one of the last Christmases we had together, you told me not to ask for any presents from grandma because if she spent money on us, she'd have less to spend on the rest of you. I don't think you understood that the most precious gift I had was being able to be with all of you. Physical things meant little to me then, and even less now. In fact, I'd gladly give up ever receiving another gift in exchange for time with you, my son, and others lost to me now in this life. "Things" can be special, but they don't matter at all in comparison to the time and love, laughter and happy memories we make with the people in our lives.

Shortly before you died, I told you that Brad and I weren't going to make it and I was working on a plan for our divorce. You said you'd support my decision but thought it was a mistake. You told me that he understood my restless, untamed spirit better than most men would and he wasn't threatened by it at all, which was quite unique. You were wrong about a lot of things, mama (and I don't blame you at all for that), but you were totally right about that prediction. It was a rocky, bumpy, crazy road to get from that time in my marriage until now, but we made it...together. Happy. And it turned out better than even my wildest expectations. He has grown up to be an exceptional man. I think you'd be very proud of how well he takes care of me and our girls, and how madly he loves us.

I decided that I wanted to bake cookies today to celebrate your birthday, because it's one of the last things you did with my daughters before you died. It is one of the few memories they have of you, in fact. So, I texted Brad about it earlier and he told me to wait until he got home because he wants to bake with me. Oh, how I wish you were coming over tonight to make cookies with us, but I'll find the angel cookie cutter and make a special tray just for you.

Happy birthday & Merry Christmas, mom.
I love you.

Always,
A.

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