The Letter

You look so peaceful, laying there, so still for a moment that my heart skips a beat. But then you smile, your paper-skin covered hand reaching up to pat my cheek, and I remember to breathe. The moment passes and I help you sit up. That immensely slow, gentle pace of your own time, so that the creaks and pops of a stiff morning body are kept to a minimum. I used to be frustrated by this, impatient. But today is our special day. I can have patience today.

Our morning ritual begins as I help you to the bathroom. All the necessities that I try not to imagine someone helping me with one day. Yet how can I not, right? And how many times did you do this for me, mom? We take special care today with your teeth, your thin white curls brushed just so, a hint of colored balm on your lips and the tiniest kiss of pink on your cheeks. You look lovely, mom. Ready for our day.

We talk. I ask you what you want to do, reminding you that today is special. After all, we don’t always dress up, but today, we will, because you are worth the extra minutes. How about your favorite lavender? No? The pink dress today. Yes, that’s perfect. I help you into the surprisingly hardy dress of lace and linen that feels soft and looks so delicate, and yet it has lasted you what, thirty years? Dad bought it for you, and it was his favorite, so you are wearing it for him. He’d like that mom; I know he would.

I help you into your chair by the window and together we watch the birds outside. You prefer those to the television, though you do watch both sometimes. Still, I make sure your book of birds is close enough to reach, and the little notebook is there so you can record who visits the feeders. The squirrels are back, but I made sure to put Cayenne pepper on the seeds, so they don’t stay. Just like you told me. Just like Dad told you. The birds don’t taste it, but the squirrels do. You remind me again, but I don’t mind. Not today.

I tell you that it is time for your present and hand you a card, sliding the envelop open with the silver letter opener that Grandma gave you, the one with the mother of pearl handle. I still have the scar from when I tried to use it to pry open Grandma’s box of sweets with it. It survived, and so did I. We both pretend that your gnarled fingers are still able to manipulate it. Which reminds me, it’s time for your meds, with your coffee. I know, you like to be up at least an hour before breakfast. But coffee is always first.

I settle your reading glasses over your eyes, slip the card out and leave it with you. Your hands can manipulate enough for the card, and the letter inside. And I am close enough to be called if you need me. When you need me. I know what you are about to read.

“Mom, I have a secret to tell you. When I couldn’t walk and had no speech, you gave me all your love, but I didn’t love you. I cried for what I wanted, as infants do.

When I walked, but I fell, had few words, I cried still, but you loved me, dried my tears and set me back on my feet and encouraged me to try again.

When I was a young child, I ran from you, yelled ‘no’ at you, climbed trees in my new shoes, I didn’t love you. But you loved me.

When I was a child and went to school, refused to do my homework, broke the rules. Would not eat veggies, demanded a dog, promised to feed him and then forgot, I didn’t love you, but you loved me.

When I was a teenager, oh the fights we had. I wanted to drive; I drove too fast. I left you in tears from my terrible words. I learned to lie, I learned to curse. Always said I hated you, but you always loved me first.

Then I was in college, I rarely called, came home to do laundry, tracked mud on your floors. I helped to clean it, maybe started to grow, but I also started to drift away, as far away as desert from snow.

Then I was a mother and I called again. I asked you for advice, we became friends. I learned what your love all this time truly meant. I felt it myself towards your grandchildren.

Mom this is my secret, on this Mother’s Day. All my life you have planted a garden in me. Your love was a seed and now it’s a tree. Please forgive me for any hurt that I caused you, as I’ll forgive my kids until your trees are an orchard.”

I know you. I know there are tears, so I made sure there is Kleenex on the table. The gift forgotten because the card and letter have your attention. They always do.

We will open your gift, today it’s a little music box with your favorite birdsongs in it. We will have your favorite breakfast and lunch, with ice cream for dinner. We will watch your birds. And tomorrow we will have our special day again. This day. Mother’s Day. Because I almost lost you mom and I’d rather relive this day with you over and over again than that one even once.

I know that you won’t always smile. I know that sometimes you will shout and cry. I know that I will feel the stress. You might even say you hate me. I promise I will find the same patience you did, to accept all the parts of you. Because I didn’t love you, but you loved me anyway. You loved me first, mom, and I will love you last.