Dear Mom:
Mildred sent me a postcard of the Royal at St. Peter hotel in New Orleans last April when she was visiting her favorite city. I found it when I was cleaning and I've been meaning to write her and thank her. That's the kind of year its been: two months and not even a thank you yet for a friend.
You liked New Orleans and we talked about meeting Mildred there. First, came the hurricane.
I'm starting to slow down, although to look at me you probably wouldn't think I had been speeding at all. Anxiety does that to you: rushing around on the inside, somnambulistic on the outside. This last week, I've done very little except clean the house, which is oddly satisfying. Today I worked on my home office and now I can see the floor. (No, things aren't piled on the bed, either!) Now that the floor is clear, I have fewer excuses to avoid working. It is a home office, after all.
On June 6, I planned to post something on this blog, but I didn't. One more thing that I told myself I would do and didn't. One year. A milestone that felt so small. I remember walking Bob and wondering why you didn't answer the phone that Saturday a year ago. Like Aunt Polly, Aunt Joann and Barbra, I thought I got your schedule confused the way I always did. Sunday, no return call from you. That was odd. Monday, stranger still because there wasn't a call or an email. And then the call on Tuesday from Barbra, not you. I remember thinking that the word bereft was no longer merely intellectual for me.
I have felt guilty this past year. Not for our relationship because we had made peace with any differences we had had, but guilt for the way I have treated my friends in the past when their mothers died. I feel guilty that I guffawed when Denise, at the age of 28, referred to herself as an orphan. I feel guilty that I went to Margaret's mother's funeral, but left the church after and went to work instead of going to the cemetary. How could have known what losing a mother means? That's what Howard says, anyway. I say, I should have known. I thought I was prepared. I was wrong.
The weekend of Leah's wedding last July, we rented a suite at the hotel and you would have had so much fun. The hotel was beautiful and you would have enjoyed meeting Jeff's family. One morning, I sat at the kitchen table with my mother-in-law and we talked about you. She told me that at 84, she still misses her mother (and then she tried to do the mental math to figure out how long that's been, but she gave up.)
About six months ago, I wailed to Howard that what I miss most is your physical presence and he reminded me that we'd lived in different states for more than 30 years. Okay, point taken, I grumbled. What I mean, I said, is that I miss the immediate feedback. I miss our conversations. That's how this blog began. It's an attempt to connect with the ether.
Sometimes, for just a minute, it feels like I'm sending you an email. Just like before.
Love,
Connie
