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.