To my beloved mama,
You have always been my greatest supporter, encouraging me to express my thoughts and feelings through writing. As a child, I would share my most vivid dreams with you over breakfast, and you would gently remind me, “You should write these down, Jennifer.”
You gifted me a journal when I was 16 and performing in France, and another when I ventured abroad for the summer. I always began with a spark of excitement, eager to fill the pages with extraordinary tales. Yet, I struggled to find the time and commitment to capture those stories. I even started a journal titled “A Year in the Life of a Bride,” intending to share my experiences leading up to my wedding. But after a few entries, I let it slip away, feeling frustrated and unable to confide in you about my shortcomings. That’s what I appreciate about this blog; it doesn’t have to be an epic novel or a collection of filled journal pages. It’s simply about one thought, one day at a time.
It has been a month since you returned home, and I miss our daily interactions. Although I long for your presence, I know you are exactly where you need to be now. Over the last two years, I have watched you navigate a daunting journey, and I’ve walked alongside you, both aware that you would never reach the summit. I have finally grasped the lesson you have imparted my entire life. There was never any false hope; we understood that forever wasn’t an option, only the hope for more time, and that was enough. You have been climbing this mountain even before you entered this world.
Whenever faced with the option to rest or to press on, you have always chosen the latter. You fought valiantly against life’s challenges, sacrificing for those you love and finding solace in your many talents and creativity, until this cruel disease took hold. Please take a moment to appreciate the view from where you are; you have ascended so high, and it must be breathtaking. Now, my dear mama, it is time to rest. There are no more choices to be made, and I hope you find peace in that.
Yesterday, as I prepared for my upcoming trip, I felt your presence in everything I did. I completed the laundry and tidied the home for my husband, Adam, who often struggles when I am away. I folded sheets for a guest arriving while I’m gone, wanting him to feel at ease without me there to guide him. This is something I may not have considered before—perhaps I was too self-absorbed or overwhelmed. Maybe it took me becoming a mother to truly appreciate these small gestures, or perhaps it was the void left by losing my guiding light, the one person who might have reminded me of these things before illness took its toll. Regardless, there you were in every thought.
I baked banana bread for you, uncertain if you would be able to eat it, recognize it, or even remember me. I am so grateful we took the time to teach me your baking secrets before the tumor stole them from us. It has taken me nearly two years to perfect it. While I’m not claiming it’s the best, it tastes like home, like you. For the rest of my life, each time I make it, I will feel your presence and experience the warmth of home with every bite. The love you poured into layering the ingredients truly makes a difference! I watched as my children, Emily and Jake, jumped in to help stir the mixture, while recalling those moments from my own childhood. Did I ever assist you? Was I too preoccupied? Or simply uninterested? I can’t remember being in the kitchen with you.
My fondest memory is waking up to the smell of fresh banana bread and fighting with my sister over the end piece, only to have you come in, turn the loaf around, and cut off the other end. Such a simple act, but it holds so much meaning. I can remember nothing about the process. After they cooled, I wrapped them in plastic and then foil, bringing the ends over the loaf and folding it neatly, just like you used to. I often wonder why you did it that way. Did it keep the bread fresher? Is it something you learned from your grandfather’s bakery? Was it trial and error, or simply for presentation?
I tried to brace myself for the possibility that you might be asleep during my visit, as you sleep so much now, or that you might not recognize me. Thankfully, you were awake for a few moments. I saw you, and you saw me. Your nails needed some pampering, so I treated you to a manicure and pedicure. Growing up, you rarely indulged in such luxuries for yourself, but that never stopped you from having beautiful hands and feet. I admired how you took care of yourself week after week.
As the years passed, you began to appreciate the value of these small indulgences, and some of my favorite memories are of us enjoying visits to the nail salon together, first for special occasions, and then as bonding experiences with your daughters and granddaughters. I cherish being able to keep your nails looking lovely these past two years. This one may very well be your last, and I struggle with the weight of that reality while trying to navigate forward. Life is changing right before my eyes, and I am powerless to halt it.
Today, you attempted to say “I love you,” a struggle for you now, but a reflection of the emotional journey we have shared over the past two years. Each morning, I would wait for you to say it first; if you could, I knew it was a good day. Some days, I needed to initiate it, and you would repeat it, while other times, even that was too difficult. Today, I gently told you not to say it. “I know how you feel; I know you love me.” You seemed relieved that I let you off the hook, but sadness lingered between us. I share that sadness, mama. I am heartbroken that this disease has taken so much from us, so relentless and cruel. I fear the reality of being motherless. But I feel your presence, and I will continue to do so for as long as I live. I will teach Emily, Jake, and our new baby how to make your beloved banana bread, and if I’m fortunate, it will bridge the distance when we are apart, just as it brings you back to me.
I hope there’s a moment when Dad can share this with you, where it might resonate. I know you would cry if you could; we are both emotional souls, you and I. I’ve spent so much of my life pursuing my dreams just as you did. What I finally understand is that it’s not about reaching the summit but rather how you navigate the climb. My dear mama, that is your enduring legacy and the most profound lesson I have learned from you. You are deeply loved, and I hope you know just how special you truly are.
In Conclusion
This heartfelt letter serves as a reminder of the impact a mother has on her child’s life. The memories, lessons, and love shared transcend time and space, becoming a guiding force even in the face of loss. The essence of a mother lives on through the values and traditions passed down to future generations.
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