Dear Mom, Pt.2

If Things Were As They Should Be

Dear mom,

It’s January 1st, 2026. The first day of a new year. I already spent an entire calendar year without you, so there is nothing significant about the date today. However, I have so many things in my head that I feel compelled to talk about, but I recognize that it is all a collection of things that only you would care about. Apparently, all the things I would have told you just stack into a pile in my head, waiting for you. Well, Ginger would probably care about the things. So I did call her this morning to tell her a slew of random things. But, it didn’t totally scratch the itch. Because it can’t.

I just really need to tell you things.

This morning, I accidentally started deep cleaning the kitchen. It started with me loading the dishwasher, but I was looking at the grime on the sink and realized it needed to be scrubbed. I did all that scrubbing and moved along the countertop and made it to the stove. I opened up the oven to look at the mess. A mess I’ve never seen before. I’ve never seen it because I haven’t had to. You always cleaned the oven. I’ve never cleaned an oven, so I never had to pay attention to whether or not it had aged, crispy food and grease stuck inside. So, this is where I would call you and ask,
“Mom, how do I clean an oven?”
Now, let’s not worry about the fact that I’m 38 and have never cleaned an oven. In my 20s when I did not live with my mom, I didn’t cook enough to really get it messy. Or even if I did, I bet she came to visit me and cleaned it for me.

But I can’t call you to ask that. So, I skipped the oven. I did, however, clean the drip pans under the burners on the stove. I’ve never done that before, either, but that one is more obvious. I took the pans out and put them in soapy Dawn water. I found a single steel wool sponge under the sink and started scrubbing the pans.

Immediately you showed up in the form of a scent I haven’t smelled in years now. I didn’t realize that warm water, Dawn, and steel wool was a scent. One that smells like “mom working in the kitchen.” So many times over the years I smelled that unimportant but distinct smell and it settled into a deep, dusty pocket in my brain. Today my olfactory bulb, amygdala and hippocampus conspired to revive it for me.

So, you already showed up for me a mere 10 hours into 2026. I was thinking the whole time I was scrubbing how, if things were as they should be, you would be here helping me clean. You actually enjoyed cleaning. Cleaning kept you busy and moving, made you feel productive. So many of my memories when I was a kid were of you cleaning. And they’re good memories, actually. Because it was strangely comforting to know you were there milling about while I was playing. I guess it was simply in the sounds and smells that said, “Your momma is here.” I knew you were there. Then you helped me keep this house clean and organized when I was an adult just because you wanted to. The signs of you being here in the cleanliness.

You know I don’t mind cleaning, either. And I know you’d be helping me accidentally deep clean my kitchen. So I missed you today.
When I was done with the drip pans, I felt so proud for some reason. I knew you’d have been proud of me, too.

That’s the thing… I still feel your absence in everything I do. My daughter [I intentionally don’t share the names of my children so even though it seems disconnected, whereas actually my mom knew my kids as well as I do, I say “my daughter”], was so sick in December with the flu. She was the sickest I’ve ever seen her and you’d have wanted to know about that. That was one of the times I needed you most. It wasn’t because I needed your advice. I didn’t. In fact, you and I often butted heads on how to approach my kids’ illnesses. (Me and Aunt Rosie had a good laugh on the phone the other day reminiscing about the time you and her gave me such a hard time about not taking my daughter to the doctor once when she was sick but I intuitively knew she was fine.)
But because I knew there would be someone to share an affectionate pity for her. It would have wrecked you to see how sick your baby girl was, and you’d have been worried to death. It’s not that I’d want you to worry, but I just wanted my mom here to stand watch over my baby with me in the same way I was.

That’s it! It just hit me.
I never had to shoulder a single emotion alone. Ever. You always shared in whatever emotion I was feeling. So it’s lonely, mom.

Anyway, when my daughter was sick I figured, again, if things were as they should be, you’d have gone to the store to pick up the groceries and medicine I needed while we camped out on the couch for an entire week waiting for the sickness to pass. There are so many instances where I can see how our lives would be vastly different if things were as they should be. If you and dad had moved here, had a little house of your own. Not gotten sick.

At Christmas I thought of it, of course. There’s no such thing now as going to visit my side of the family. We don’t have to make room for that. But, in another life, my little family would go to your and dad’s house. It would be decorated with more green, red, lights and shiny tinsel than Santa’s house at the North Pole. We’d have a big, filling dinner of turkey or ham, rolls, corn, sweet potato casserole, and maybe a blackberry cobbler, cherry delight, or punchbowl cake for dessert. You’d have cooked whatever we asked for. Then, you and dad would watch my babies open their gifts that you so thoughtfully chose. You’d have bought them the big things they wanted so I didn’t have to. And you’d have bought them too much. But it would all have been things they loved because you just knew how to do that, and it would have brought you all the joy in the world to see their eyes light up.

Anyway, I prayed to see you in December. What I realized was that I see you in anyone who does something kind for me. Because not only did you always do thoughtful, kind things for me, but you cherished anyone else who did, too. You always said, “You can never forget someone who does something kind for your child.”
So, you’d still yet be very proud of your son-in-law. The other day he did something thoughtful and helpful and I said to him, “Thank you for taking care of me the way my mom did.”

One of your friends from your hometown sent me a sweet Christmas gift that you had given to her. It was totally unexpected. She wrote me a letter and told me how she’d thought to send it last Christmas, but truthfully, she didn’t want to part with it. She liked it, and it made her think of you. This year she decided the kids and I might need it more than she did. It touched my heart so much. I know how much you cherished your good friends and you’d be so grateful for how some of them have been so thoughtful to me. I sent her back one of your pretty Christmas decorations so she could still have something to think of you when she saw it. But that’s when I realized that’s one way I find you when I’m looking for you. In the people who loved you and are thoughtful enough to show me love.

Mom, you wouldn’t believe what my son is going through. You’d get a kick out of it. Remember when I was about his age and I got an acute but serious bout of anxiety? I was a hypochondriac, constantly asking you about absurd things I thought could be wrong with me. I can’t believe it, but it has hit him now. Karma, I guess. I’m doing my best to navigate it but it would help to have your perspective. You’d remember it from the standpoint of a parent who had to figure it out, whereas my memory is of victimhood. Your boy really misses you, you know.

And my daughter. I can’t help but think almost every single day about how much you and dad would absolutely adore her. Dad didn’t get to meet her, and you knew such a little version of her. She is such a joy. She is so, so little, cute, and incredibly funny. She is so loving and sweet - you’d adore it - but she is also stubborn and strong-willed. You’d find it endearing and hilarious.

Both kids would have a very special place of refuge in you and dad, if things were as they should be.

But they’re not. And I recently wrote in a Facebook post on my birthday how my feelings about that have evolved since you’ve been gone.

I mentioned already that the couple months after you died were numbness. Once the numbness subsided and I had to feel feelings, they were heavy. The grief that overtook after the numbness was monstrous. I felt a depression unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I truly didn’t know if I would ever feel joy again. I was worried about it. I operated on autopilot. From the outside I’m sure I looked “normal.” But momma, I was empty. I couldn’t help it. You’d have hated it because you never wanted me to feel that way. You told me that. You’d be so upset to know how much I’ve suffered over it. But I couldn’t help it. Any capacity I had to show up was so fleeting. I never knew if, when, or how I would have the ability to function decently.

I would think of you and dad and how me and the kids have to go the rest of our lives without you. They’re so little, my kids. My daughter isn’t even in kindergarten yet. You all didn’t even get to make it to her first day of kindergarten?! What kind of bullshit is that? Unbelievable. Mom, I tried to think of another word besides “bullshit” because you wouldn’t like it. But I can’t, because that’s what it is.
Anyway, I’d think of how you and dad are already gone, and I wouldn’t be ok.
I wasn’t ok.

I wasn’t ok for a long time. But I said a lot of prayers. I prayed prayers - I don’t even remember what I asked. Finally, not too long ago now, the fog in my brain began to dissipate.

So now I think of you and dad and feel a little momentary shock in my brain. I’m still actually in shock of this reality, and I hate it. I hate that you’re gone. I hate that I can’t do anything about it. I hate that my kids didn’t get longer to feel your love and get to know you. I hate that you all didn’t get to be grandparents for very long. I hate that I can never replace what I’ve lost and I have to feel a void for the rest of my life. I absolutely hate that things aren’t as they should be.

But now, I’m ok. At least I’m ok. Whatever it means.