Love letter to Mom

Eight years ago this morning, one of my best friends, my mother, moved on to another dimension.  I was present at her bedside, watching the heart monitor countdown to zero, like a new year’s eve event.  When the clock struck “12″, if you will, there was a celebration, just not in that hospital room.  “Mom” had returned to the non-physical world and her spirit friends were throwing one hell of a party.

In honor of my mother, Vera Miles, I return to my blog with a love letter.

Lou,

I know that time has no meaning where you are.  But for us, eight difficult years have passed.   I must admit that it doesn’t seem that long most times.  Your sickness was so much a part of my life that the events of your last 6 months remain quite vivid.

I find it funny that even from the other side, you have no patience for my tears.  “Tears don’t bring back the dead and they don’t move me,” rings loud and clear in my ears every time I’ve wanted to (as T would say), “boo-hoo bubble-snot cry.”  How the hell do you have less patience as a spirit??  Silly woman.

But that was one of your many gifts.  You taught me from an early age that one day I’d have to get along without you.  I never wanted to face the probability that I might outlive you or Daddy.  But you always found a way to make me laugh while thinking about your death.   Even at your bedside and during the funeral preparations, you were pointing out things that were funny to you, trying to get me to look beyond my own pain and see that even in death, there is something beautiful and even funny to behold.

Thank you, Mom, for helping me remember to laugh at myself.  For pushing me out of the nest and believing that I would remember I could fly.  Thank you for the memories of snowball fights and driving lessons.  For always asking if I wanted to lick the bowl of cake mix and for never asking why the frozen peaches and cherries had mysterious holes in them.  Most of all Mom, thanks for picking me to be your daughter.  I was and stiill am humbled and ever so grateful to be Vera’s youngest.

G’night.

Love, Sue