Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,

What planet are we on?

Two months ago we were all together, laughing at the kids, even joining in their crazy music blaring dance party. That was the night I tried to have you and dad over for dinner, and you insisted on bringing the entire meal! Grill hostess, Yvette, cooked us all lunch the next sunny and most picturesque winter day, commanding the rickety old deck at the ski club. Presenting in your “thank-you-very-much” style, a tablecloth over the ancient rotting cable-spool that was excusing itself for trying to be a table. You looked beautiful in your camel coat, waving the spatula and barking orders.

In that past ,which now seems like another physical location in another place and time, your car would zip past me in our small town. I would know exactly where you were headed. That same car would wheel right into the driveway to pass out Altoids if you saw the kids were outside playing, or if there was a “two-fer” special up at the P&C and you wanted to drop off the extra pork tenderloin or bag of dinner rolls. The phone calls were regular … regular? Sometimes hourly, for hours, especially this last year with all my divorce drama.  

The divorce is final, Mom! We are supposed to celebrate the next chapter! The Dom is in the fridge!

OK. We will hold the celebration, for now. Now we must take in what this shifted plane has put forth. We will march together to the place where cancer was discovered in your body. I’m right here Mom! Just show me where to find it. We’ll shoot it and stomp it! I’ll kill it, take it right down! I want to be there for you like you have been there for me! MOM! Can you hear me? Can you fight, too?

Two months ago I never would have imagined that our Mother’s Days would be preciously numbered. Never had it occurred to me that there would be a time where we did not bump carts at the grocery store on a random Tuesday afternoon, you acting surprised despite the fact that my three lovely banshees had announced themselves from aisles away with their screeching, cart jockeying, and treat pleading. Shopping just yesterday, I kept thinking it was you I saw just whipping around the next end-cap and perusing the ferns in front. You would be doing that. And the feuds, Mom! You CAN NOT expect me to live without the spice of our feuding! It just proves the truth—those we love the most hold the power of our emotions. That is why you make me SO mad, and HA! That is why I make you mad, too! I know!

So anyways, who will still be calling Tyler “the baby” with me when he is thirteen?