27 letters for 27 years: Dear Mom

Mom –

I’m sitting in the Bellwood coffee shop right now. It’s April 28. As you very well know, it’s 2 days after a particularly news-filled night. Nothing like a good ole possible cancer diagnosis to shake your insides up. Or to make you more reflective as you cross over from one year to the next.

I think about when you told me about the mammogram, and how you probably saw my face fall as soon as you uttered that word. You came over to me, wrapped me in your arms, and spoke to that unsaid emotion thrumming in both of us — Trish. It’s this thing we carry in our back pockets, this thing that we’ve both been marked by. Twinning scars, if you will.

That moment reminded me that you and me, we have this thread running between us. More than just an invisible umbilical cord. Maybe it comes from millions of conversations and time spent together. I smirk when I think about all the times I’ve picked up your sentence when your words dropped off. I think about all of you that runs through me.

Your blonde hair and blue eyes.
Your kindness and servant-heartedness.
Your love for a good story.
Your persistent gathering of people.
Your steadiness and sure-footedness.

I don’t know if you remember this, but we had a fight back in November. Over what, who knows. I had let it lie for a while, avoiding confronting the tension between us. I was about to leave to go somewhere, so I bucked up and walked into your room. You were sitting in the corner chair, maybe reading. I don’t remember what happened right after I walked in, but what I do remember is that I crawled up to your side, pressing my right cheek to your left. I stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, exhaling.

“I think I get my feeling from you.

I think we both feel a lot.

And sometimes, we just don’t know what to do with it.”

In my 27 years, no one has championed or challenged me more. I told someone once (lol on a date) that my mom said that I could do anything.

They laughed. Of course she did. All parents think that, they said.

I shook my head. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t know my mom.

Some of the most treasured words you ever spoke over me (and you’ve said a lot) were, “I push you because there’s no one I believe in more. You are capable of great things.”

Those were not the exact words — my memory isn’t perfect — but the confidence you had in me, that I did not have in myself, was wind in my sails. If I told you I was writing a novel today, you would say, “Of course you are. And it’s going to be amazing.”

Your belief in me is validation that I would not have said I needed, but it’s the validation that means the most.

You know me and you see me, and feeling seen is an extraordinary force of nature.

You are my midnight call, my wind in my sails, my fellow iron.

I’m not sure what I intended for this letter. Maybe it’s the very thing I have not said — I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

McKenzie