When I think about my relationship to my mom, I think about my affection for love letters.
I have always loved writing them, in part, because she used to leave long notes for me in the mornings before she would leave for hours. And when she first started using the Internet in Philadelphia’s public libraries, she would send me annoying, ALL CAPS MISSIVES. I kept them, I will read them again some day.
I was thinking about this today when I finished writing about missing her:
It has crept up on me before, when they were alive.
I have written rage-filled screeds about it. Stupid Hallmark holidays. No more sending my father cards that he wouldn’t acknowledge. On Father’s Day, my mother would call in the morning to tell me to wish her a Happy Father’s Day, since she had done both jobs.
But this day to honor our mothers comes first in May.
I have tried everything. I have been drunk on this day, I have spent it commiserating with a friend who had a similar complicated dynamic. I have tried to sleep right on through.
This is my first season of holidays without parents.