Dear Mom,
This one’s for you. You always encouraged me to express myself through writing. I still remember those mornings when I would share my wild, imaginative dreams over breakfast, and you would gently remind me, “You should write these down, Jennifer.”
You gifted me a journal when I was dancing in France at sixteen, and another one when I spent a summer exploring abroad. Each time I began writing, I was excited to fill the pages with extraordinary stories. The tales were there; I just struggled to find the time to capture them. I even started a journal titled “A Year in the Life of a Bride” to give to you on my wedding day, filled with my thoughts and experiences. I wrote a few entries, then abandoned it out of frustration. But that’s what I love about this blog; it doesn’t have to be a grand novel or a perfectly filled journal. It’s just one thought, one day to focus on.
It’s been a month since you left my home to go where you needed to be. I miss seeing you every day, but I take comfort in knowing you’re finally at peace. Watching you climb that mountain over the past two years has been a journey for both of us; we knew reaching the peak was impossible, but we held onto the hope of having just a little more time. You’ve been climbing that mountain long before you were born.
You’ve always chosen to climb rather than rest. Throughout your life, you fought like a true warrior, struggled against challenges, sacrificed for those you love, and found solace in your many talents—until that dreadful disease took its toll. I hope you can turn around and see the beautiful view from where you are; you’ve ascended so high. Now it’s time to rest, my mama. You’ve earned it, and I hope you find peace.
Yesterday, I took some time to clean the house, preparing for my trip. I felt your presence in everything I did—wanting the laundry done, the house immaculate for my husband, Alex, who always struggles a bit when we’re away, and even folding sheets for a guest who will be visiting. It’s something I never thought about before, perhaps because I was too caught up in my own world. Maybe becoming a mother opened my eyes to these little details, or maybe it’s because I’ve lost my guiding star, the one person who would have gently nudged me to get things done. In any case, you were there with me.
I baked banana bread for you, not knowing if you could eat it or even recognize it—or me, for that matter. I’m so grateful we took the time to share your baking secrets before the tumor stole those moments from us. It’s taken me nearly two years to get it right. I’m not claiming it’s the best, but it tastes like home, like you. Each time I make it, I feel your presence, and with every bite, I’m reminded of home. It’s all in how you layered the ingredients; it really does make a difference!
As Alex took care of our little ones, I recalled my memories of waking up to the smell of fresh banana bread and fighting my sister for the last piece. You’d come in and cut off the other end as a peace offering. Such simple moments, yet they hold so much depth. I can’t remember the baking process; I just remember the love that surrounded it. After the loaves cooled, I wrapped them just like you taught me—plastic, then foil, neatly folded. I wonder how you learned to do it that way. Was it from your grandfather’s bakery? A little trial and error? Or just for aesthetics?
I tried to prepare myself for the possibility that you might be asleep during my visit or not recognize me. Thankfully, you woke up for a few moments. Your nails needed some TLC, so I pampered you with a mani/pedi. Growing up, you never spent money on such luxuries, but you always managed to have beautiful toes. As time passed, you began to enjoy those little indulgences, and some of my fondest memories are of us at the nail salon, bonding over those moments. I’m grateful to have kept your fingers and toes looking lovely these past couple of years. This might be your last, and I’m struggling with the reality of it all as life shifts around us, and I feel powerless to stop it.
Today, you attempted to say “I love you.” It’s a struggle now after everything we’ve been through over the past two years. Each morning, I would wait for you to say it first; if you could manage that, I knew it was a good day. Some days, I had to say it first, and you would repeat it, but on others, even that was hard. Today, I told you not to say it. “I know you love me, Mom.” You looked relieved, yet sad. I’m sad too, mama. Sad that this disease has stolen so much from us, that it has been so relentless and cruel. I’m terrified of being left without you.
I will carry you with me for as long as I can. I’ll teach our kids—Mason, Lily, and our baby boy—how to make your banana bread, hoping that it will bring us closer even when we’re far apart, just as it does now. I hope there’s a moment when Dad can read this to you. I know it would touch your heart. We’ve always been the emotional ones, you and I. I’ve spent my life chasing my dreams, just like you taught me. What I’ve finally realized is that it’s not about reaching the summit, but how we navigate the climb. That, my dear mother, is your legacy and the most valuable lesson I’ve learned from you. You know you are loved, and I hope you understand just how special you truly are.
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In summary, this letter is a heartfelt tribute to my mother, expressing gratitude for her love, teachings, and the lasting memories we’ve created together. It reflects on the bittersweet journey of life, love, and the inevitability of change.