Dear Mom,

I think about you all the time, I just don't write. Sometimes I think that it will ruin a perfectly okay day. . . . Not that writing to you is awful, just deflating.

I was okay. I was okay for four weeks. There was a little bit of hurt but it was tolerable. Now, Mom, I don't think that I'm okay. Every part of my body hurts. Every part of my spirit hurts.

I miss your love. I miss your validation. I miss your laugh. I miss your hugs.

Love you so much Mom.

Dear Mom,

I had a really good day yesterday. But as I was trying to fall asleep I realized that the really good days are the most difficult because the contrast between my day and my night is so sharp.

But then today was rough. And all I could think of was the fact that you would understand. I wouldn't have to explain anything, you'd just... get it. And you're about the only person.

I don't know what's harder. Tomorrow I'm going to shoot for mediocrity. But you'd be so mad at me for that.



Oh Mom. It's so hard to be happy without you.

Hi Mom,

I haven't written in a few days. I'm sorry-- I wanted to see if these letters were really a collection of the things that I wish I could tell you or if I was merely seizig a creative opportunity. I think that it may be a bit of both. Pleaes forgive me.

I had a dream about you last night. We were back in the hospital -- all of us -- and you woke up from your sleep. You were rejuvinated, looking the most beautiful I had ever seen you. All you needed was some sleep to heal up and beat that cancer.

It was wonderful to see you. To hear your voice was bliss. But I wonder: is this the denial phase comming through in my subconscious?

The last thing I said to you when you were alive was that I didn't want you to go but that we were okay. That we could handle it if you had to go. To say hi to Merfy for me and to remember that I love you. That I love you so, so much.

I said this to you on the day that you died. Was this my fault?

The last thing that you said to me was to tell me that I'm beautiful. The last thing that you said to the room in general was that you were left with no dignity. I love that you're so stubborn.

I'm sick, Mom. Really sick. The last time I fell this ill was... well, I can't remember when it was but I remember you stocking up on Sucrets and Bentasil and those Vick's nasal inhalers. I was really young, I think. I hear you telling me to get my butt to the doctor. "Are your glands swollen? Is it strep?" You're asking me over and over.

I'm going to the doctor tomorrow.

My theory is, and I think you'll agree, that the world is telling me to SLOW DOWN. To process this mountain of stress that is laying on my shoulders and sort things out instead of trying to run through them. I hate this part.




Alex and I went to see Jesse Cook tonight. There was a empty seat next to me and more than twice I could swear you were there. It was so good, Mom. You would have loved it. Maybe you DID love it. I sure hope so.

Dear Mom,

I went to Parent-Teacher conferences today and heard so many wonderful things about your son. And, as expected, a few frustrating things. I wanted to report it all back to you and because I couldn't I cried my way home. I don't mean to-- I know that you're watching me and feeling completely awful about it. Please don't. It's not your fault.

I also went to that coffee place that S is always talking about. I can see why he loves it... the woman who owns it is so attentive and friendly. And it's clean! You just might like it there too.

I keep thinking "I can't believe you left me to do this" (that is, to raise your son) but I don't know if it's a real feeling or just a thought I'm supposed to have.

Also, I had one of those big global days. I tried to explain myself to Alex but the whole time I was thinking "Mom would understand."

My chin is pulling my lips down into a painful frown and I don't want to frown anymore today. I'm going to go to bed but I hope that I dream of you again.

I love you.

Dear Mom,

No letter tonight. Just love.

Dear Mom,

These have been the longest days of my life. Time without you has stretched and on some level it feels like it's always been this way. It's horrible.

Alex and I went shopping yesterday and you'd be so proud of him-- he was open to trying on everything and anything! We're close to finding some really wonderful clothes.

You'd be even more proud of Steven and Paul. I caught them having a real Father/Son moment today with real words about real things. It made my heart burst.

The wash of condolences has slowed down and already I feel farther away from you until I start writing here and a heaviness settles on my chest and tears collect in my eyes. It's good to feel this way, I think. It's what I've got left of you.

Oh Mom... we used to have so many of the same thoughts and so many of the same feelings. I knew what sort of day you were having even when we didn't speak or see one another.

I feel like part of my spirit is missing. Is this what it feels like to lose a twin, or just to lose yourself?