Dear Mom,

It is now two years and seven months since you crossed that bridge to the next life.  I still miss you and think about you frequently.  Little things remind me of you, such as eating at Friendlies and the table being too high for you to sit comfortably.  I wear some of your coats and jackets.  I’ve lost weight and they now fit me. I feel close to you when I have one on me. You were a very tiny “little old lady” in the last years of your life.  I guess we all shrink some as we age; it goes along with the wrinkles, poor reading vision, and saggy skin.  Should I continue?  I don’t think so, either.  

I have now entered a new stage of mourning.  Guilt.  I feel bad for the arguments we had, I feel bad for expecting too much as you aged.  I’m sad about losing my temper with you too many times.  I loved you, but I think the stress of being the soul caretaker, having a full time job that was quite stressful and being a grandmother myself and trying to squeeze in visits to my daughter - 1500 miles away - took it’s toll on me, too. 

Years earlier, you cared for my kitties while I was gone.  But at some point that became too much for you.  I understood that and accepted it. But I didn’t understand why you would not let me find someone to stay with you for a few days while I was gone. It would have eased my worries a little.  I was always afraid that something would happen to you while I was gone, and no one would be there to help you.  Eventually something did happen, and no one was there. You did survive, but it was the beginning of the end for you.  I knew this, and I think you did too, but we never spoke of it. 

I wonder now if you needed to talk about it but protected me from the sadness, or if you truly didn’t want to discuss it.  I feel bad that I didn’t initiate the conversation because it would probably have been helpful for you.  I also feel sad that I arrived only minutes after you died.  I didn’t get a chance to tell you I loved you one more time, or to say good-bye.  Of course I won’t ever get that chance, but writing to you helps to let the sadness out and put it to rest.  I think I will see you again sometime, and maybe my cats, too.  Are you waiting for me?  Are you happy, safe, warm?  Is Daddy with you now?  I hope the answer is yes to all of these questions. And I hope someday I will think of you happily and not with grief and guilt.  I love you and treasure my memories of you. 

Linda, age 64