My letter to Mom in heaven

Hi Mom. It’s only been three months, but sometimes it feels like yesterday — and other days it feels like forever since I’ve heard your voice or seen that beautiful smiling face. I guess you want to know how we’re doing. Well… we’re doing OK. Not great, but OK. We’re going through the motions of grief and trying to move forward, trying to find our new “normal.” But the truth is, nothing will ever feel normal without you here with me.

Mom, you would have loved Thanksgiving. Dad and his girls — your daughters and granddaughters — worked together to create your Thanksgiving dinner. The table looked beautiful, and each place setting had a picture of you. Your smiling face helped us get through the day. You would have loved how many people came; I think we had 23 around the table.

Dad came over for my birthday. Timmy sang Neil Diamond for us and even dedicated a song to you. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Thankfully, I saved your voicemail from September when you and Dad called to sing Happy Birthday to me (four months early, now that the song is public domain). So each year, I’ll still get to hear your voices serenading me. Heather also gave me a silver ornament — she’s carrying on your beautiful tradition. You would have loved seeing them all this year on the mantle and hanging from the chandelier.

For Christmas, Lauren and her girls decorated — and undecorated — your house. We had several new friends join us for dinner. We broke tradition and filled the table with appetizers: bacon-wrapped scallops, meatballs, chicken tenders, brie, fruit… more food than 24 guests could eat. Prue and her fiancé traveled all the way from Australia. I know how much you looked forward to seeing her again. The moment she walked into your house, she smiled — flooded with memories of childhood afternoons spent playing with Heather at her grandma’s house.

To celebrate your birthday on January 7th, Dad took Lauren and me to your favorite restaurant, L’Auberge Chez François. Dinner was amazing — no wonder you loved it so much. We sat near the fireplace, shared stories, and I wore the necklace with our picture inside. I ordered a Cosmopolitan for you. When the waiter heard we were celebrating your birthday, he brought out complimentary champagne and a meringue dessert with a candle. You would have loved every bit of it.

And Mom… I know you’re wondering about Dad. He’s amazing. There hasn’t been a day when we don’t share a memory about you. We laugh, we cry, we reminisce. He’s doing as well as anyone can after losing his best friend. How could he not miss you? Sixty-two years of marriage, plus all the years before. He’s so grateful for the time the two of you shared after his retirement. He misses your beautiful smile, your cooking, your wit and humor. He misses having someone to watch TV with. He misses your incredible memory and brilliant mind. He misses hearing the phone ring and listening to your laughter as you talked to friends and family. He just… misses you

Here’s something you won’t believe — but it’s true. Remember how we joked Jesse was Dad’s dog? You always laughed and said Jesse only liked him. Well, Jesse is grieving too. She really, really misses you. She’s perfect because you raised her. And while I won’t go so far as to call myself perfect, I think Heather turned out pretty perfect — thanks to you.

Heather’s health is better. She has an amazing team of doctors. Her neuropathy gets worse in the cold, but that’s expected. You would be so proud of how she’s moving forward and not letting her disease define her. She’s being strong for me, and I’m trying to be strong for her. I’m so grateful for everything you did for her, and for the bond the two of you shared. What a blessing that she was living at home and able to be there with you during your hospital stay and your last days. I’m constantly in awe of her strength and compassion — qualities she learned from you.

As for me, I’m doing OK. I talk to Dad every day, just like I did with you, and I cherish these calls the way I cherished mine with you. I can now go into a store without crying — though I still don’t know why stores made me so emotional. Maybe because I wanted to buy you gifts, or because they reminded me of the joy you felt picking out gifts for others. I never know when the tears will come. I have good days, and then, for no reason, I suddenly miss you so much.

Driving home from work is still hard. It’s always been my thinking time, and I always called you on my drive home. Crying and driving don’t mix well, but I manage. I’m sure people stuck in traffic next to me probably wondered why the lady in the car is sobbing at stoplights.

I love you, Mom.

Mom, I hope you can see us — all of us — trying our best to honor you in the big moments and the quiet ones. We’re finding our way, slowly, just as you would want us to. Thank you for loving us so deeply and for shaping every part of who we are. Your love didn’t end; it just changed form. And I carry it with me everywhere I go.

xo,
Lisa