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My mother, father, brother, sister, and I sat around my parents’ dining room table, just the five of us, without our spouses or children. All of us, except my mother, had a glass of wine, scotch, or beer, because drinking would certainly be necessary to provide the courage for the evening. It was the night before my mother’s brain surgery, one of the many steps leading to a clinical trial that we were praying could give her more time since learning she had stage four Melanoma. She had asked each of us to write her a letter. She explained how eulogies were great in theory, but the one person who probably would feel best hearing them was the one who never got the chance. So, we all assembled together with our glasses full, ready to share our letters to our mother.

Although her request was made to all of us, I think it was really intended for my brother, John. As a child, he was attached to her leg; literally, she would have to peel him off of her at pre-school drop off. But, over the years, the football captain, police sergeant, who hated to talk on the phone, was harder to access. She wanted to feel his grip again and know that he was still her baby. My brother pulled out a post-it note from his pocket and said, “Here.” It read, “Thanks, mom.” We all were safe to laugh because he simultaneously pulled out a folded, typed letter and said, “Just kidding.” Beneath the football pads and bullet proof vest is still the boy holding onto his mother’s leg. His post-it note diversion helped to create the magic of that evening, joy intertwined with deep sadness and fear.

My sister, Erin, an artist, like my mother, had not only written a beautiful letter but also assembled an entire journal filled with poems, quotes, memories, photographs, drawings, and cut-outs, all beautifully expressing her gratitude for my mother. It reminded me of a similar journal my mother had made for my father before they were married. My father got up from the table and brought it back over. He asked if we all had seen it and went on to explain that my mother had given it to him on their wedding night, as a wedding gift, and he was to read it before they did anything else. He went on to say that he had waited a long time for that night, and a quick skim was the best that she was going to get. Once again, laughter filled the room. He then opened it and began to read her poems and share the black and white photography that filled the pages about their falling in love. Magic re-entered the room when he turned to the page with two doves flying off into the sky together, because it was almost identical to the same image on the last page of Erin’s journal. But, on that page, the image was of one dove and the word she wrote was simply, “Soar.”

I felt with my letter there were significant expectations; somehow I was supposed to have the words that would provide the comfort that we were all desperately seeking to find. After all, I was the oldest and I was considered to be the “writer “in the group. In my letter, I knew that I could not write the details, because there would be no end. I tried to speak in generalities, but they came off as flat summaries. I looked at my brother and sister and felt like they had done it; they had given her exactly the right thing. Even my father, who she didn’t ask to write a letter, found a way to contribute to the magic of that night. The night was everything my mother could have hoped it to be, and it was a gift to all of us. But, I was left with an understanding of why eulogies are done posthumously. My letter to my mother would never feel complete. In fact, the following morning after I heard my father getting in the shower, I crawled into my mother’s bed and started to share all the things that I had written in my head throughout the night that I hadn’t gotten to say in my letter.

But, now I see the magic of that night more clearly. I need my letters to my mother to continue. Throughout my life I have always wanted to write, but I have never had the courage. Early on, I felt like I didn’t have enough tragedy, enough travel, enough of anything worthwhile to say. My moments of inspiration led to sentences that never became paragraphs.   But, since getting married and having children, there has been more than enough that I could write about. I have had my share of tragedies, and at times I have written about them, but most of the time I have talked through them with my mom. She has been on the other end of the phone or sitting across from me with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, listening and validating every thought and every word. And now facing her illness and the reality that I may not have her to nod and affirm my conclusions, I need a way to cope and to share with her. When she got sick, she said, “Kathy, you need to keep writing.” That magical night that she asked us to share our letters is a night that I want to live on. I want to continue to write her letters about my life, a life filled with stories of joy intertwined with the deep sadness and fear.

My mother painted this for me, and it hangs in my living room. The header on the blog is the sky in this painting.