A Letter to Mom

Mom,

I hope this letter somehow finds its way to you. And if it does, you may wonder why it took me 38 years to write it.

The simple answer is that I have carried you with me all these years. You have never been far from my thoughts or from my heart. I have talked to you often, even though you never answered back.

Then again, you never really had to answer. I always seemed to know what you would say. That is how close we were—you and I.

I thought about telling you everything that has happened in my life since you went on to heaven all those years ago. But I believe you have been watching from somewhere above, perhaps from a heavenly balcony, so you already know the details. You have seen the happy days, the hard days, the blessings, the mistakes, and all the moments in between.

There is one memory I have held especially close. It was a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1988, just a few months after you passed away in March. I was lying on the living-room couch, taking a nap, when I dreamed of you.

It did not feel like a dream. It felt real—so real that, even now, I can see it as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

You walked over to where I was lying, gently tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Tommy Joe, wake up. I want to talk to you.”

We talked for a few minutes. Then you stood, began walking away, and said you needed to leave. I rose up from the couch and pleaded with you to stay a little longer.

Then I woke up.

It took only a moment for me to realize I had been dreaming, but my heart was racing, and I was sweating. It had felt so real. To this day, I believe you came to me in that dream to let me know you were all right—and that I did not need to worry about you.

The strange thing is that I do not remember what we talked about. I did not remember then, and I do not remember now.

But perhaps the words were never the point. The important thing is that you came. You visited me. And that visit has never been forgotten.

There are some things I have wondered about since you left. I have often thought about the first five years of my life, when I lived with Grandma and Grandpa. I was born at a difficult time in your life, and I know you carried burdens that no young woman should have had to bear.

You left school in the eighth grade to help support your parents and your sister because Grandpa would not work. Then, only a few years later, you were expecting me. I cannot imagine the worry, fear, and heartache you must have felt. Yet somehow, through it all, you did what you could to make a life for us.

Not long after I was born, you met Dad. Fifteen months later, you and he were married. I know that because, after you passed away, Jerry and I were cleaning out the house and found your marriage license.

Mom, I do not know why we never sat down and talked about those things while you were here. Maybe I was too busy living my life to ask questions about things that could not be changed. Maybe some memories were simply too painful to speak aloud.

But I always knew one thing: how much I loved you.

I loved you for all you tried to do for Jerry and me while we were growing up. Dad became what I would call a gentle alcoholic, and much of the responsibility for raising two boys fell on your shoulders. You carried that load with little help, and I know now that it could not have been easy.

Sometimes I wonder if the Lord has made you a saint, so you can stand shoulder to shoulder with Saint Peter and all the rest. If anyone earned a place among them, I believe you did.

As you know, I have made it to 85 years old. Did you ever imagine I would live this long? I still have a little way to go before I catch Aunt Beulah, who made it to 95, or Aunt Helen, who reached 100. But I am still here, still thinking of you, and still grateful for the life you gave me.

I regret that you never had the chance to meet Jerilyn. But I am sure you have seen her by now. She is the wife I always needed. She may not have been my first choice, but she has surely been my best choice. She loves me every day, and aside from my health, her love is one of the greatest blessings in my life.

So, Mom, be ready. My time on this beautiful earth is growing shorter. I am not expecting trumpets or a grand orchestra when I arrive. But I do hope that you, Dad, and Rusty will be there at the front of the line waiting for me.

I will have so much to tell you—once the tears have stopped and I can find my voice again.

And, by the way, I know you probably will not agree with this, but I have given you such a large part of my heart that I may need to reclaim a little of it for my grandchildren.

Then again…maybe not.

Your favorite son,
Tommy Joe
(Jerry may not like that.)

“Her children arise up and call her blessed.” — Proverbs , KJV