A Letter to My Mom, Five Years Removed

Mom,

The date of your death passed three times before your grandson’s life sparked inside me.

I was angry when I found out. Offended, even.

How could I be expected to do this—sustain the life of a baby, nurture and love him selflessly—when I hadn’t been amply mothered myself? Surely I deserved to blossom beneath the care of my own mother before being handed a such a responsibility.

I was entitled to you.

You slipped out of my world before a child of my own was even conceivable (pun intended, of course). Suddenly I found myself desperate for all the details of your pregnancy so I could manage my own.

Did you hope for me, or did I interrupt you? Did you guess I was a girl? Did you live with your pale, green face pressed against porcelain for fourteen weeks like I did? Could you feel me hiding in you, huddled in your quiet and warm, rising with the vibration of your voice? Were you afraid?

I was. But as this little one grew, so did my sense of responsibility. The fear in me turned holy, and my gaze turned outward for the first time since you breathed your last. Both suddenly and slowly, I became a mother.

The night my sweet boy came, someone asked if I thought you were in the room with us. My reflex was a loud no—I’m not superstitious like you were. I knew you weren’t hovering over me. I had resigned to the loss of you long ago, even before you were gone.

But as I settle into this new and haphazard season, I see you. You are all over my mothering. Your quick wit, your charm, your warm skin. Your freckles and your warmth. Your acceptance and compassion. How you told me you would do anything for me to feel safe. The dream you had, covering me with your body in a tornado. I remember you in all of it.

You, my wilting, weary mom. You told me you did the best you could, and now, baby boy dozing in my own tired arms, I believe you.

I am five years removed from you, and I finally feel grace. In the gentle quiet of each day and night I pour out to him, I can hear you: we are mothers, and we do what we can.

And I see the answer to the question I’ve been wondering all along. I am as much your daughter as I am my own.

I am yours, I am mine, I am a mother.

Always,

Ashley