Dear Mama,
It's December. I always think of this as your month, mom. I wish I had a head full of happy Christmastime memories to conjure up at this time of year, but try as I might, I can only recall one. The year I was eighteen, a new bride with a whole lot of adulting ahead of me, Brad and I were living at home. On Christmas Eve, after the family crowd had left and the evening grew late, you came into my bedroom and tucked both of us into bed as if we were children (and let's be honest...we totally were). I remember your mischievous laughter and the happy twinkle in your eye as we talked for awhile before you went in search of your own bed. I cannot recall a single gift from that year, but I can bring your bubbly, full-of-life self up with crystal clarity and it creates a longing I cannot even describe. I was twenty-eight when you made your trek up to Heaven...twenty-eight years of Christmas opportunities that passed us by save that one that was nothing but happy. This makes me sad and grateful to at least have one, because I know plenty of people who don't even have that. The Christmas of 1997 was a horrible experience, your absence an empty chasm no amount of holiday cheer could feel. Thankfully, time and lots of love from my Tribe helped to soothe that pain throughout the years since. The only other year I was completely inconsolable was the Christmas of 2011, when I lost my son. It is the only time in my life that I ever remember truly wanting to die, and yet here I am, alive and well...another fact for which I am extremely grateful. It is comforting to know that you and my son will share yet another holiday season together, and even more so to think that sooner or later I will join you both. On Earth, you sang like an angel. I can only imagine just how much more breathtaking your voice is now. Sing to my son, mama. Sing loud enough so that on some dark, quiet December night, if I'm very still, I'll hear you. I've titled this letter "December is for Mothers" because of you, and how you remind me of myself as a mother, and most of all, because those threads make me feel more connected to the Holy Mother. Happy birthday, mama (on the 22nd) and Merry Christmas. I love you. Always, A.
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About The Author
I grew up in rural North Carolina. When I was only nineteen, I moved away and became a military wife. My only aspiration at that tender time in my life was to create an adult life that "fixed" all of the "injustices" of my childhood. Secretly, however, I wanted to reach for the sky! I wanted to be a writer and find ways to "save the world" (my mother used to say, "You have Save the World Syndrome".). Mostly, I wanted to matter. Archives
August 2021
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