An Otherworldly Message 

I wrote a letter to my mom.

She had died, and I couldn’t grieve. I wasn’t in shock or numb from her death, or even surprised. She had been sick a long time. Every day she took another breath was a miracle. She had outlived all predictions from the doctors. But the day she left this earth, we gathered to say goodbye, and her ashes were spread out on the big blue ocean that she loved and lived by for most of her adult life.I felt sorrow though, and I cried at her passing. Dear Mary stood by me, patting my shoulder, quiet, and calm,  a sweet witness to my tears. Mother’s best friend Maggie was there , too. I always marveled at her, for being mother’s friend, for having nine children, for being a good Catholic. She was nothing like mother. I loved her, too, for caring.

   I wasn’t able to process all I felt at the time, but later, I wrote a letter to Mom, put it in an envelope, addressed it to God(I figured he would send an angel to deliver it) and thought nothing more about it. Looking for the means to an end, I hoped the letter would bring me spiritual resolution and set me free from an angry past.. But it brought much more than that.

    I lay down in the den, to nap. The long blue curtains fully blocked the light, the summer

 warmth soothed me like a womb, and I had drifted into that in-between state of reality and dream. that’s when I

heard her voice.

“Norma.” What?

“Norma!” It was insistent, the kind of commanding tone I was used to hearing when it was my turn to do the dishes.

“Mom?’

“I got your letter.” It was Mom!

We talked. It was a soft conversation, as natural and normal as if I talked to friendly spirits everyday. What about? I don’t remember the words, I just remember the feeling. A good feeling. We enjoyed having a moment together.

I do remember one thing, though.

“I’m proud of you.” Really? this was something she never would have said in life.

“I’ll see you soon.” uhhh…how soon? Something to contemplate, I mused, a little nervously.

“Sooner than you think.” Did you have to add that last part.

 I felt her drift away, and I began to drift away as well.

Was it a dream?

No. It was real. In the letter, I thanked her for all she had given me-a zest for life, an outgoing personality with a “P”, a sense of Justice and Good for all, a love for music, for fun, for friends.

I felt regret for the ways in which I had failed her as a daughter. My selfishness in not visiting her more, my inability to see her fear and loneliness in old age, my resentments for not accepting her limitations, for wanting her to be more, for me, not for her. As I read her journals and letters, I was ashamed at my lack of gratitude for her personal sacrifices to raise five children, to love my father, to fight to stay alive. My inability to see we can all only do our best with what we come into the world with. She had a past, too. 

    Then a beautiful thing happened, as childhood memories began to flood in.  I remembered her singing to me in the mornings when we were all little, “Que Sara, Sara, “, “Beautiful Dreamer,” “, and other songs from her era. She kissed me goodbye as I walked across the way to the old elementary school near Juarez that my father was recently hired to be the Principal. Mother went to teach the little Mexican first graders English.Even then she had a sense of justice for those in need.As I grew older, I remembered her eyes dancing as she played an old deep-bottomed mandolin, her gift to me before she died, strumming old folksongs at the Hootenanies that were regular occurrences at our West Austin home, where we moved to in the 60’s. I was a young woman in college,years later, when she met Captain Dick, and they rode off into the sunset to fish forever on the shores of Padre Island, the home by the sea was always full of laughter, card games, potlucks, and the sign on her wall said, “Love Spoken Here.” Happy memories arrived like surprise gifts between moments of remorse.

I could grieve now. It was delayed, but grief just the same. I had my regrets, but I had made my amends, and Mom had crossed the veil to let me know she got them. I could let go now, and remember the good, and say farewell. Goodbye, Mama, Sue. I love you.

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