Dear Mom, Part 3

Dear mom,

I really need to talk to you. Like in that overwhelming, panicky way. That pit of your stomach way. That catch in your throat way.
It’s not because anything in particular is wrong, but here’s the thing I’ve realized: when I get in certain way, I know there is one person, and one person only, who can help me. I don’t even need help - I don’t mean that. But I just need to talk to someone and that someone is literally only you.

I’ve been feeling it a lot lately. And today the whole day was “one of those days” and I wanted to tell someone about it. Someone who would get it. I almost couldn’t stand the weight of knowing I couldn’t unload these thoughts and emotions.

You’re the only one who gets it. Nobody “gets” me, mom.

What’s funny is, you didn’t actually always “get” me either. But somehow that didn’t matter. I’ve been trying to find words for a long time that satisfactorily articulate this, and I can’t. The fact that you didn’t always “get” me or agree with me, you’d give me unsolicited advice or judge my choices, you didn’t always understand me. Yet- you still “got” me. I guess it’s that it was safe to tell you about anything and everything. You’d share the emotions no matter what, pick up the other side of the load whether you agreed or not. Or I could feel the love in your response, whatever it was. Or I don’t know, maybe it was just something supernatural I’ll never be able to explain.

But I don’t have that now. Who am I supposed to call to tell these significant things to? What about the insignificant ones? Because you’re the only one who would care about those. Yeah, how do I poetically or even rationally explain that you didn’t always get me, but it didn’t matter, you still got me?

Momma… I want to arrive home exhausted, sit at the kitchen table to a warm plate of your food cooked with so much care - could be soup beans or cornbread or salmon patties or ribs or the only cole slaw I will eat (and now never eat again) and definitely blackberry cobbler you made especially for me- and tell you all the things. Things that don’t even matter except for to me and (therefore!) to you. Or things that do matter that we would disagree on but you still somehow made me feel better about it all. That was my rest.
I don’t know where to rest now, mom. Really rest. It’s not a physical rest, you know.
I’m exhausted.

Nobody is feeding me anymore, mom.

Nobody is waiting to hear from me at any moment.

Nobody knows what I need without a single word spoken.

Mom, I want you to pick up Little Debbie cakes at the store for my kids that I don’t want them to eat.

I want you to decorate the fireplace mantle because it’s bare now and you always did it in such a cute, cozy way.

I want to come and tell you that I need the most random item anyone could ever sporadically need, and you say, “Oh, I have one of those!”

Mom I want you to get the stain out of my shirt.

And I want my kids to run to you when I’m being mean so you can save them from me. Because sometimes I am kind of mean and they deserve that sweet, comforting refuge.

I asked my son a couple days ago about his memories of you. Mom, you would hate this, but his memories are fading. And I found out that most of his actual memories are of you when you were sick. He really was pretty young the last time you were healthy… 5, or early 6 at best so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised but, mom, that hurt me. Most of the other “memories” he has are actually stories we continue to recount with him and pictures we look at.

A lot of people still have their mothers. A lot of people way older than me.
It didn’t have to be this way.

I’m sitting out here on your porch, mom. You here?

“Mom” - the personification of “rest,” the antithesis of “loneliness.”

Mom… I am having a really hard time wrapping my head around the fact that you’ve not even been gone 2 years because how am I supposed to go the rest of my life without someone getting me? Honestly.

Is this really it? I hate this.