Dear Mommy,
Three years have passed since you left. That means three Christmases, three Mother’s Days, and three birthdays have felt a lot emptier without your laughter, your drama and your wisdom.
I have spent almost my entire college career missing you. I know you think it’s corny, but a piece of you has fallen into every single essay, poem and paper I have written. To tell you the truth, I write everything as though you’re reading it, though I hope you have better reading material where you are.
My life has changed a lot over the last three years. I have had my heart broken twice, and both times, thought about the hilarious but mean and totally offensive comments I know you would have had about each boy to make me feel better. (Without going into specifics, you would have said both were far too skinny for me anyway and consequentially, bad huggers.)
I have learned a lot too. Every time I finish a book, I think about the second time I read "Death of a Salesman" and called you crying about wealth and masculinity and poor Willy Loman. You just cried with me.
Since you left, I have stolen your face. Every day, my skin seems a bit tanner. My lids grow a bit heavier. My cheekbones become more prominent. The lines around my smile reflect the diamond on your face exactly, point for point. I know I must be beautiful because you were the most beautiful woman on Earth.
Parts of you have begun to fade from my memory, and other painful parts have stuck. I have forgotten your laugh but remember your cough. I have forgotten the smell of your hair but remember your body on a hospital bed.
Still, even the painful memories are beautiful because they are memories of you. Sometimes, I wear your clothes and it feels like you’re here. Sometimes, I listen to your CDs and read your books. The last letter you wrote me has yellowed in my wallet but I can still read the sparkly pink script, so much like my own: “I know you are not perfect; I love you all the more for that.”
You have continued to shape my character over these years. I have tried so hard to adopt your strength and to be strong for everyone else, just like you always were. In doing so, I’m afraid I have also begun to absorb your mean streak.
I know it’s strange, but I think I understand you so much better now than I ever did when you were alive. Your fight was exhausting, and you didn’t fight for yourself. You fought for me. Now, I fight so many similar monsters, though I try to fight them for myself as much as I do for you and others.
Over the past three years, I have cried over every single argument we ever had—when you were right, when I was right, and when we were both stubborn and stupid—and every fit I ever threw. I try to think through both halves of the thousands of arguments we never had a chance to have.
I know you would not have approved of every single one of my choices or every single facet of my identity today, but I also know I could never hide from you. You would hear me out. You would challenge me. You would disagree with me (loudly). You would defend me, though. You’d be proud of me. You would love me. You do.
Three years later, I am a different person from the girl you knew. I am a woman, albeit a broken and confused woman, and I am strong. Three years later, you are real to me. Three years later, you are my world. I carry you with me in my memory and in my heart.
I love you, Mommy.
Love always,
Your daughter
