Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

You remember those journals you kept after Annette died? The ones you let me read last summer? Well, I didn’t read all of them then, but I have started again this week. I read your words and your pain and your anger and your confusion and it amazes me because what you’ve written is almost identical to some of the things I’ve written you about or told friends. I love reading your words filled with pain because it makes me feel like you’re sitting here on my dorm bed with me, grieving your loss as I grieve my loss of you. I feel close to you in ways I never could’ve imagined. I was always admiring of your faith and strength to keep going after Annette’s death, and reading these vulnerable words that depict how broken you were at that time makes me admire you even more. Oh, how I wish I could give you a hug right now! To tell you that I understand. Of course, if you were here, I wouldn’t be able to understand.
One small note from your journals that struck me this afternoon was your contemplation of whether Annette was “shadow or person”. That I think something that is hard to grasp—now that you’re no longer here and the memories are all that are left, how can I prove you were real? Obviously no one would deny that you weren’t. But now that’s how it feels trying to find that new normal without you. Just like that thought of the fact that we are now seven months and three days since you were alive and sitting on that chair in the living room recovering. Every day takes me one day further from your embrace. Yes, every day also takes me one day closer to the day I’ll get to see you again in Heaven, yet I have a feeling it will a bit longer than what has already passed. Are you even real? Your heart is still real to me through your journals and your letter to me. I can hear your voice with your words and handwriting. Perhaps this is where I received my penchant for writing. From you. You never showed off your writing, but there is the same raw and real quality to it that displays your heart—every imperfect, hurting, loving, beautiful part of it.
You were truly beautiful, Mama. And I’m so thankful that God allowed you to leave a little piece of your heart here on earth.

Your daughter,
Hannah