This post is dedicated to you, my beloved mom. You always inspired me to put pen to paper. As a child, I would share my imaginative and intricate dreams with you over breakfast, and you would say, “You really should write these down, Jennifer.”
You gifted me a journal when I danced in France at age 16 and another for my summer abroad. Each time I began, I was filled with excitement, ready to fill the pages with remarkable tales. Yet, despite having the stories swirling in my mind, I never found the time to commit them to paper. I even started a journal titled “A Year in the Life of a Bride,” intended to share my thoughts and experiences leading up to my wedding day. But after just a few entries, I abandoned it, too frustrated to admit it to you. That’s why I cherish this blog—it doesn’t have to be a grand novel or a fully filled journal; it’s simply a moment captured in words.
It’s been a month since you embarked on your journey home, and I deeply miss our daily interactions. I take comfort in knowing you are exactly where you need to be now. Over the past two years, I’ve watched you scale an immense mountain, and I’ve ascended alongside you, both of us knowing you wouldn’t reach the summit. I’ve finally grasped the lesson you’ve imparted to me throughout my life: there’s no false hope here. We understood that forever wasn’t an option, just a desire for more time—and that was all that mattered. You’ve been climbing this mountain long before your birth.
Throughout your life, you’ve always chosen to climb rather than rest. You’ve fought valiantly against adversity, made sacrifices for those you love, and expressed your creativity through your many talents until this devastating illness took hold. Please take a moment to look back at how far you’ve come; the view must be breathtaking. Now, dear mom, it’s time to rest—there’s no more climbing to do. I hope you find peace in that.
Just yesterday, I tidied the house in preparation for my upcoming trip. I could feel your presence in everything I did. You would want the laundry finished, the home spotless for James (my husband), who often struggles when we are away, and the sheets folded neatly for our houseguest who will be arriving while I’m gone. It’s a thought that would have never crossed my mind before. Perhaps I was too self-absorbed or overwhelmed. Maybe it took becoming a mother to appreciate the significance of these details, or perhaps it was losing my guiding light—the one person who might have reminded me of things I’d overlook. Nonetheless, there you were.
I baked banana bread for you, uncertain if you would be able to eat it or even recognize it—or me, for that matter. I’m grateful we had the time to share your baking secrets before the tumor took that from us. It has taken me nearly two years to perfect the recipe. I’m not claiming it’s the best, but it tastes like home, like you. For the rest of my life, every time I bake it, I will feel your spirit and taste the love you infused in each ingredient. Veronica is at a friend’s house, and Tommy is playing with his buddy, eagerly jumping in to help mix the ingredients. Did I ever help you in the kitchen? Was I too busy or uninterested? I don’t remember being there with you.
My memories are filled with mornings waking up to the scent of fresh banana bread and fighting with my sister over the end piece. You would come in, turn the loaf around, and slice off the other end. So simple, yet so profound. I can recall nothing of the process. After they’ve cooled, I wrap them in plastic and then foil, folding the ends over just like you taught me. I wonder why you did it that way. I can guess it keeps it fresher, but how did you know that? Did you learn it in your grandfather’s bakery, through trial and error, or was it simply for presentation?
I tried to prepare myself for the possibility that you might be too sleepy during my visit, as you often are now, or that you might not recognize me. Thankfully, you awoke for brief moments. You saw me, and I saw you. Your nails needed some care, so I treated you to a manicure and pedicure. Growing up, you never indulged yourself in such luxuries, yet you always had beautiful toes. Week after week, I watched you take time for yourself, making your hands and feet look lovely.
As the years passed, you began to appreciate the value of such indulgences. Some of my fondest memories are of our trips to the nail salon, initially for special occasions and later as bonding experiences with your daughters and granddaughters. I’m grateful to have kept your hands and feet beautiful over these last couple of years, especially this visit, which may very well be your last. I find it challenging to grapple with this reality while moving forward. Life is changing in profound ways, and I feel powerless to halt it.
Today, you struggled to say “I love you,” but our journey over the past two years has taught us both about resilience. Each morning I awaited those three words from you; if you said them first, I knew it was a good day. On some days, I had to say them first, and you would echo my sentiment. Others were tougher, even that was a challenge. Today, I told you not to say it. “I know how you feel; I know you love me.” You looked relieved, yet sad. I feel the same, mama. I’m saddened that this disease has taken so much, been so relentless, and cruel. I’m scared to be without you. But I feel your presence, and I will continue to for as long as I can. I will teach Tommy, Veronica, and our little one how to bake your bread. If I’m fortunate, it will bring us closer when we’re apart, just as it brings you to me.
I hope there’s a moment when Dad can read this to you, and some words might resonate. I know you would cry if you could. We are both emotional beings, you and I. I’ve spent much of my life pursuing my dreams, much like you. What I’ve finally realized is that it’s not about reaching the peak but about how you navigate the climb. That, dear mother, is your legacy and the most significant lesson I have learned from you. You know you are loved, and I only hope you understand just how extraordinarily special you are.
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In summary, this heartfelt letter reflects a daughter’s love and memories of her mother, capturing the essence of their bond amidst difficult times. It highlights the importance of shared experiences, the lessons learned, and the hope of carrying on family traditions.
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