Dear Mom,
I heard your voice and bought the Neccos. They were wrapped in the same fragile paper they’d always been, striped in deceptive bright colors that didn’t appropriately hint toward their chalky flavor. Like the cherry Nibs I bought last week, I ate them and thought of you.
You loved Neccos. Do they have them in Heaven?
Tess started school this year. She’s the brightest Kindergartener you’ve ever seen. When she was student of the week, she excitedly labeled every one of our animals: four cats, one dog, twelve tarantulas, two snakes, two scorpions, and one guinea pig. You loved guinea pigs, too.
She doesn’t get to know about you, though. You’re a secret I can’t tell.
Eddie’s four months old. Unlike Tess, he’s not stained by you. My pregnancy was hard, but nothing like the last. I didn’t go blind in one eye this time. Didn’t have to call the police from far away. I never lost sleep over if you were okay, and zero days were spent in tears because you’d said something nasty. His existence is wrapped in a warm blanket of nothing but love, free of pain and the grief that I carried in my head and my heart when my dear daughter lived in my belly.
I’m mad at you, Mom. Look what you’re missing. Your grandchildren thrive and you’ve missed all the moments. Eddie smiles and laughs when I tickle his toes. Tess sings and his ash-blue eyes follow her every move. He’s blossoming. She’s blossoming.
I’m blossoming, too. And you’re missing it all.
Four days. Tess was here for four days when you did it. You couldn’t have waited to look at her picture? They gave me your laptop after you were gone. You never even opened the message I sent. You ignored it to make it easier on yourself. I know why. If you’d seen her, you wouldn’t have done it. You would’ve put the belt down and forgotten your sadness. Would’ve found something new to love and live for.
Tess is smart. She asked me, “How did Grammy die?”
How do I answer that, Mom?
Tess has taste. She asked me, “Why buy this gross candy?”
How do I tell her that you told me to? Instead I say, “It was Grammy’s birthday today.”
“But Grammy is dead,” she says, matter-of-factly.
Yes, she is.
Why do I miss the way you tore the noisy paper off the Neccos in the theater? When I put my hand over yours and asked you to be quiet?
Your clear eyes looked at mine with innocence and said, “What?”
All you wanted was your favorite candy. I’m sorry I said you should stop.
I hate how the officer came to my door. A young man and a chaplain, dressed in dark blue. I knew why they had come. With a babe in my arms, I let them inside.
You were already gone.
“But I had a baby four days ago!”
You made me call Dad. Why did you do that? I had to hear my strong father cry. And your sister. And cousin. Every person I called had a story to tell and a reason they’d now carry guilt to the end.
It solved nothing. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?
At night, when my babies are snuggled up close, I kiss their soft skin and think, “Mom would’ve loved this.” And for a quick moment, I’m peaceful and happy, and feel you’re with me. There’s no pain, no yelling, no sick accusations, no more worry when you don’t answer the phone. It’s just love and the thick joy to see them both grow.
Tess is curious. She asked me, “What was Grammy like?”
And I said, “She loved Neccos. And she would’ve loved you.”
Someday I will have no choice but to tell her. But until she is older—that’s all I have to say.
Love, Morgan
