Marie at 1 Write Way

An Open Letter to My Mom on (What Would Have Been) Her 101st Birthday

Mother circa 1982

Dear Mom,

I don’t know where you are right now. I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, but if there’s a Heaven, then I imagine …

You sitting at a picture window, in front of a card table where a spread of 1,000 puzzle pieces wait for your attention which is distracted by the Baltimore Orioles and Cardinals and Bluebirds also vying for your attention outside your window.

Your oldest daughter Charlotte is watching TV which is permanently set to daytime soaps, the ones you and she would discuss on the phone when she lived in Florida and you in New York. She sits in her blue leather recliner, offering running commentary that you only half listen to.

Your other daughter Shirley is flipping through Amway receipts while she recites the latest accolades of her grandchildren. During commercial breaks she’ll pick up a James Patterson novel and read a bit. She sits in her chair, a facsimile of the recliner she left behind, the shawl I knitted for her draped over the back.

You watch your birds, piece together your puzzle, and maybe listen to your daughters. You don’t have to hear every word. It’s enough to have them near you.

Maybe you’re waiting for one of your siblings to drop by. Maybe Beatrice who was the first to go, or Alice who was the last before you. Maybe your brothers Virgil, Ed, Bob, or Leon will show up, or Mildred, Edith, or Leona. It’s been so long since you had seen your siblings. And you wonder about the last two–Howard and Orvetta. You want them to be well until it’s their time and then … no pain, no pain.

You miss berry picking and going to the casino, but then your daughters might take you when you’re in the mood. In this version of Heaven, Shirley does not have Parkinson’s and Charlotte can breathe easily on her own.

After your daughters–your girls–died, you missed them so much that you were relieved to miss your 100th birthday. You got close, very close. But the pull of your girls was too strong, the loss of them too much to continue to bear.

People ask me why your last two children–me and your son–weren’t enough to keep you going. Why did you openly lament the loss of your girls as if they were the only children you had?

They were the only children you had for eight years. You were in your twenties then. By the time your son and I came along, unexpectedly, you were nearly middle-aged with a sick husband and decades of hard and poorly paid work ahead of you.

I want to believe that those first eight years, when it was just you, my dad and your girls, were happy years. Maybe, when your girls died, that was the loss you felt most keenly. They were no longer around to remind you of that time.

No child should die before their parents. No parent should experience the death of their child.

I know you loved me as best as you could. I loved you as best as I could. Yes, I could have been a better daughter. My efforts paled compared to my sisters. Yes, you could have been a better mother. Hindsight is 20-20. There’s regret on both sides, but no point in it.

You were never one for regrets. You didn’t like to look back, and you didn’t pay much mind to the future. From you, I’m learning to live in the moment. That may be your greatest gift to me.

With love,

Marie

Charlotte, Mom, and my stepdad Ken
Mom and Shirley

Marie A Bailey

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27 responses to “An Open Letter to My Mom on (What Would Have Been) Her 101st Birthday”

  1. “It is enough to have them near you.” This is the way my mom felt about her kids. Just wanted them all in one place near her. She, too, was wistful for an earlier life: when she was widowed and it was just her and her 3 girls. This took forever for me to see because I was so grateful to get my stepdad, and it seemed like that was a harder life for her. But she was independent then. I can feel it in myself when I look back at my 4 years “single-again,” even though I wouldn’t give up this life for love or money or all the stars in the sky. Our emotions are strange things, and I’m glad you are at peace with your relationship with your mom. Happy birthday to her!

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    • Thank you, Ellen, for sharing your story. We understand so much better after much time goes by. I am at peace with my mom. We had enough moments of heartfelt love to keep me warm forever. 💙

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  3. Oh, Marie! This is so poignant. I hope if there is a heaven, which I don’t believe in either, I hope your mom and sisters are there just as you describe. It’s sad that you feel like that you and your mom could have loved each other more, but as you say, that’s hindsight. Onward, day by day.

    But you will be able to relate to this: I was interrupted by kittens while trying to type this comment. 😊

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    • Okay, I needed a chuckle … thank you for providing one 😸 I have to be careful where I do my typing because Raji sometimes surprises me by crawling onto my lap.

      I really don’t know if my mom and I could have loved each other more, or if just seemed that way in comparison with other mother-daughter relationships. In any case, I’m just grateful for the warm relationship we enjoyed the last 15 years of her life (she really started to mellow after my stepdad died when she was 85). 💙

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      • I’m glad you had some good times and memory with her. 💙

        This morning I was sitting in my chair at the kitchen table. Davy got into my lap as he usually does in the morning. Ollie hasn’t been able to figure it out, but finally he just plopped there half on top of Davy and my arm supporting the rest of him. Of course I was stuck then! 😂

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  7. the moody blues have a song titled a question of balance ,, ( 1970 ) ,,

    i was an impressionable teenager ,, it left an impression on me ,,

    im not sure there is a connection to your story ,,

    im not sure about much these days

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  9. Marie, as Merril mentioned, this is very poignant. I’m glad you were able to take such an honest look at what happened with your Mom and to celebrate her, though I imagine some years were very difficult.

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    • Thank you, L. Marie. Yes, some years were difficult, but as time passes, I’m reflecting more and more on what I loved about my mother. All this writing (public and private) is helping me along the way :-)

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  10. It’s interesting how as time goes on and I get older + wiser my memories of my mother focus on different aspects of her personality. Sounds like you’ve come to that point, too. They were products of their times, just like we are.

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    • Yes, indeed. It’s one of the reasons why I like writing about her and trying to imagine her life before me … I feel I’ve come to understand her better and think of her as someone more (much more) than just my mom.

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  11. I remember reading this when you first posted it. it strikes me that these letters and memories you write are fantastic self therapy. Not everyone is good at that, at being honest and really examining all the nuances of the relationships we have with family and how they change, both good and bad, over the years. And it takes time to get that perspective and to grieve the pain and be able to enjoy the good memories even when other things were happening. Also, it can be hard to be okay with being angry and likewise, feel you have to be angry all the time. I think you do a really good job with this and I hope it is truly as helpful and it seems from the outside.

    By the way, I don’t believe in heaven or hell either. If there is a heaven, I imagine it to be a great library. My. favorite authors have continued their writing in heaven, of course, and I get to keep reading their stories.

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    • Oh, I like your idea of heaven! Mine would also include a yarn store with an infinite amount of yarn and knitting tools :-)

      The thing about my mom living as long as she did was I had that much more time to reflect on her and our relationship. I’ve kept journals in which I would rail against her. Reading how I felt about her then and realizing how I had grown to love her now gave me a lot to sort through. Thank you for your kind words about my post. Believe me, it went through a lot of drafts :-)

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