Mom

I never wrote my mom a note on her birthday. It was August 24th. It's not a required thing but since I wrote a letter to my dad, it would have been nice (and fair) to write one to my mom too. So, since I don't really know if time even matters in the after/life, I'll write one today.

Dear mom,
I forgot to write you on your birthday. I did think about you. I think about you often, but on your birthday I thought about how it would have been to have you around without the Alzheimer's. Right now I'm in Newton, Kansas. Yesterday, Jay and I went to the Historical Society. We talked with some folks who were so kind and friendly. It's one of the things we love about Newton. The Historical Society is in a three story building (plus basement) that was built in 1906. The stairs are old dark burnished wood. The windows are etched in places and have peculiar latches that I can't always figure out. I told the woman upstairs (the one in charge of archives) about the bible I found after you died. The one that was given to you when you were nine years old. When you lived in Newton. We never knew that you lived here. You didn't remember it.

I looked up your parents (my grandparents) in the City Directory. There they were. It was somewhat shocking. You lived HERE. In Newton. I had several dreams right then, in the space of five minutes. I thought maybe the house I'd bought was the one you lived in as a little girl. If that wasn't true, I daydreamed that I would drive by your house and it would be for sale. That it would be restored (the kitchen at least...who wants an old dingy 1927 kitchen?), but that the original woodwork would be intact. That the lawn would be green and mowed, and that the house would be an exceptional bargain. That in the attic I'd find an old doll or a journal of yours, or that somewhere I'd find something that had been yours. I'd buy the house, and I'd visit and own the house where you had lived.

The first night I slept here on this visit, I dreamed about you. I never dream about you. You were wearing a yellow shirt, and you weren't memory sick. You were just my regular mom, and you knew me. I looked right at you and said, "I KNEW you'd be here." and I hugged you and you hugged me back. Man, it felt so real and good. Anyway, after Jay and I left the Historical Society we drove to the address of where you lived. It was sad. It was an old, run down house that hadn't been taken care of. Jay said, "well, I guess you don't need a picture of that." but I took one anyway. Shoot, I don't care about that house. But the thought of you being here, maybe walking down Main Street on occasion, playing in your front yard, going to the Sunday school that gave you that Bible all those years ago, that I like.

If you and I sat down together, I don't even know if we'd say much. I think we'd just sit on some couch and pull our legs up along side us and chat a little. Your hands were always so beautiful. Nice nails, long fingers, smooth and olive in complexion. You would always play with our hair, just brushing it back from our faces. You would touch our shoulders or drum your fingers along ours. You were just perfectly affectionate with all of us. You loved us all, but you weren't sappy or mushy about it. You were strong and capable. You were a great mom, and I'm not sure if we celebrated you enough. Since dad's birthday was first, he seemed to always get the parties and the hoo-ha. And you were the one that held everything together. Don't think I don't know that. Don't think we didn't all know that. We did. So I'd like to celebrate the little girl who lived in Newton, with the beautiful hands, who grew up to raise a good family, and brush the hair out of all our eyes, and who showed us girls how to love, and care, and be strong and capable. Happy Birthday, a little late.