Dear~
Today I went to meet you but you were not to be found. I confess I’ve only gone twice, but even that seems like too much. It’s the place I think I will always least like to go. And it isn’t that I don’t miss you, or that I don’t think you’re owed such respect. Because, of course, I do miss you, and love you and it’s because of missing and loving you that when I show up and you don’t, I’m reminded again of just how far away you are. Maybe the fault is mine, because it seems like lot of people find some sort of final connection tied to that place. But it doesn’t seem to connect me to you; it just reminds me that you’re gone.
But I still trudged with Steph and Dad through the snow to gather with them around your name. Dad brought green carnations, and I pulled out the vase while he dusted off the stone, revealing the words, “Beloved Mother.” You are, you know. Beloved, yes, of course, completely. And one of the mommiest moms I’ve ever known. It seemed the thing that brought you the most pleasure: spending time with us, running an eternity’s worth of errands with us, advising us, picking us up from college five hours away so that we could spend the weekend together at home, encouraging us, calming us, convincing us that whatever it was would not be the end of the world. That you could handle it, that whatever it was, that you could handle it. And even in those last few days, while your daughter grieved at your bedside, you somehow gathered the strength to wake up to ask her, “What’s the matter, honey?” I am still overwhelmed by that.
The trouble is that time just keeps going by. And it’s hard enough when I drive down 71 to Pfieffer Road and I go on autopilot to your old house or when I want to call you and tell you something wonderful or ridiculous or . . . , and I realize I can’t. It’s hard enough to miss out on those things in the one day at a time, but it’s so much worse thinking about how you’re never going to be with me, here, again, ever. That you won’t see me get married. I remember you saying, when you’d tease me about being wild and coming home without warning with a husband, “I don’t care what else you do. If you get married? I’d better be there.” And that you won’t have a chance to enjoy really being a grandmother. I think of you cradling Natalie, in your lap, in the wheelchair and it’s so lovely and awful for so many reasons. You seemed so pleased to see her, you came every day to hold her. And you asked me to come and stay with you after I got out of the hospital-you could couldn’t even take care of yourself by then, and you were still trying to take care of me.
The truth is that you’re in a place of perfect love and perfect peace. That makes me joyful and grateful. And we will not be seperated forever; our Lord will reunite us. I love and miss your humor, your “trump cards”, your crazy dog farm, your simplicity, your capability, and most importantly, your blessed company. I love you and will see you someday. Happy birthday to you.
Love-
Marianne
Tags: Barbara Sue, birthday
