Dear Mother Mary

Dear Mary,

If you’re reading this letter, my Dad, and your friend of almost 60 years, is dead. You said it was unfair that you got to spend more time with him than I did. Or that it didn’t matter in terms of our grief. To know him for a minute, a decade, or a lifetime, was to be forever moved by him. Moved by a man that would move mountains, and give you, or any stranger passing by, the shirt off his back. You were there with me when his shirts no longer fit, and could no longer give, but was forced to receive. You were there for me when that man had once again become a boy. When the cancer had riddled his brain, rendering him but a shell of his former self. When you could hold his frail frame close to yours, and you could hear the ocean.

You were there for me when I changed my first diaper. I never thought it would be my Dad’s. You had had your children by now, and knew what to do. Adults in diapers were just big babies, really. Often in more ways than one. You coached me through his temper tantrums, and through my own, too.

You opened your home to me, and kept your lights on well past midnight, knowing that some days were better than others. It was my beacon in the storm. The house I had grown up in with your kids, making mud pies in your front lawn. It seems like only yesterday I was crawling through your window, leaving a trail of dirty footprints. But it has been 30 years, and in a way, I still feel caked in mud.

You taught me that grief is messy, and no matter how many times you try to clean up the mess, it remains. “Out damned spot!” Like Lady Macbeth, I am riddled with guilt, and no amount of scrubbing will make me clean.

You reminded me that, even if I had waved a magic wand, we would have always ended up here. My Dad was a stubborn man. He lived life on his own terms, even when it affected us.

I remember chatting with you about a memory I had about almost losing our house as a kid. Despite much gaslighting from my family, I found myself almost 30 years later, sobbing in a musty basement, opening the still sealed envelope from the mortgage company postmarked 1996. They had tried to help us from homelessness. The letter went alongside dozens more, cozying up to the pile that became kindling for my lost childhood. Turns out we were both right.

You helped me grieve the loss of my father, and also the little girl that never felt like she had a chance.

Before Dad got sick, it had been decades since we had last spoke. Dad brought us back together, reminding me of the mother I had forgotten I had. Maybe he reminded you of your curly-haired daughter from another mother that you still mothered like your own.

We chatted again the other day, just after the US election. I was having a rough time of it, but I knew we had different views. We were careful with our words, but never minced them. We saw things differently, but remembered what was really important in life in the wake of death. We ended our conversation with “I love you”.

I’ll never forget the look on your face when I got caught sneaking into your house caked in mud. Your eyes widened in horror before you broke into a fit of laughter. Years later, you remind me to keep laughing through the tears. And without the mud, there is no lotus. It’s only when it’s darkest that we’re able to see the stars.

Sometimes the kindness of another person is all we need to see us through our darkest night. I am forever grateful to your kindness. Like Mother Mary, you came to me, and reminded me to “Let it Be”.