A Letter To My Deceased Mother


Momma Bear,

April 7th came and went. It wasn’t like any before it. I couldn’t gaze into your blue green eyes and have you roll them at me before opening whatever gift I got you. I couldn’t watch your gentle, loving fingers peel back the uneven wrapping paper on every gift I wrapped. I couldn’t put my cheek to yours, and take pictures laughing for your 55th birthday. April 7th came and went.

The sun rises, the sun sets, and you’re behind it now instead of watching it with me. Your white hands, adorned by your many rings and perfect nails, help move the world with God, instead of stroke my back after a long day. Your warm touch no longer puts my stray curls back in place. Your love shines through the sun now, not your body or words or actions.

I see you in little glimpses, mini moments. I saw you when the bells chimed “you are my sunshine” like you used to sing to me with love. I see you when I crank out a story in five minutes, or when a brilliant idea comes to mind. But I don’t see you look into my eyes, I don’t see you walk by my side.

Your sweet voice is no longer behind every phone call I receive. Your smile no longer behind my jokes. My Facebook notifications are no longer from you liking every picture. Things are different. They have been for almost a month now. They have been since you passed.

Sometimes reality is hard to accept. When I finish the semester in May I’ll fly to a house you made a home, without you there to embrace me as the door flies open and I scream about my arrival. You’ll never edit my essays again or call me concerned about how I’m handling school and a social life at college. The warmth of your body will no longer be my comfort, your loving hands that molded me will no longer wash my laundry, pray over me, console me. Reality is a reality that I never thought would occur.

Days go, nights come. You’re no longer here, and that’s ok. You fought, you battled, you used all your strength and were a worthy opponent. I’ll see you in flashes, in bylines of articles published and in every source of happiness. I’ll see you in the sun, the water, in church, in my future children. I’ll see you again, but never in the same way.


Your baby.