dear mom,
You know, I was advised to write you letters by my last therapist. I was asked to read it aloud at my sessions, which gave me so much anxiety, but I felt like it might be the most cathartic experience I could experience in my adulthood. So I practiced reading it aloud to myself, and it was as heart-wrenching as I thought it might be. It brought up memories of the memoir-writing class I took in college, where we took turns reading our writings aloud in class. I cried during every class to the discomfort of my classmates. But I couldn't help it.
Well I never got a chance to actually read my letter to my therapist at the time because our sessions kept meandering towards other thoughts and concerns. She asked me to describe my tattoo to you.
I'm not sure when I got the idea that I needed to ink you onto my body. I just knew I wanted to represent you or our relationship in some permanent way. But what symbol could encompass who you were and who you have become to me? I didn't want to be cliche, and I didn't want to be too specific. I didn't want to be vague either. And I didn't want to be contrived, built from symbolism I had assigned to you only after your death as the mother you could have been instead of the mother you actually were to me.
I was taking a breather from lab work one afternoon to walk around UW campus in the sunshine when I began thinking about our evening strolls. How I could count on leisurely walking around the neighborhood after dinner every night. I thought of our last evening stroll together. How I didn't know that it would be our last. That it would be the moment that separates my personal before and after.
When I look at my arm, I feel like I'm looking down on us walking. Imagining little people going around and around the inked line. Starting and stopping. Starting and stopping. Beginning and ending. It's a little overwhelming to look at. So much of what I'll always feel is invisible-inked right there along with it. The color of the sky changing as the sun set just before we started walking is there. And how it was gone and my friends' faces became shadows when I realized you still hadn't caught up to us. The sound of our shouting to each other from our bikes over the wheels zipping across the gravely road is there. I can point to where we made it to the horse stables and pulled up several handfuls of grass to feed our favorite white horse. Where we stood too distracted for too long.
My memories of our last walk don't really feel like ours. That time I did not walk alongside you as you pushed Alfred in his stroller. Because I had charged ahead of you with my friends. I think a lot about what went through your mind that evening. Were you annoyed I had begged to go even after you suggested you were too tired? Were you ever worried that I wasn't in your line of sight? Was Alfred fussy? Did you talk about your plans for the summer with your friend who also died that night? Were you cold? Did it hurt? Did you even know what was happening?
I wish I remembered what we had for dinner that evening. I know it wasn't special. It was probably even more routine than usual because Dad was out of town. Tonight I made you one of my routine veggies. When I don't know what else to buy at the grocery store, but I know I need something green and something that will last, I pick up a head of cabbage. It always serves me well, stretching over several meals. I love a simple stir-fried cabbage with peppercorns and dried chilies, scooped over steaming rice the way you'd make for me. But this time I thought I'd braise it. My friend made a really delicious rendition of charred and braised cabbage that I still think about, and I had some duck broh in the freezer. This braise is slowly reduced down in the oven with red onions and then topped with za'atar and Thai basil from another friend's garden. You might like this creamy garlic dip leftover from lunch the other day. I cracked open a tin of sardines, too. Would you laugh at the crackers? I would've rather served you homemade toast.
Tonight we'd eat at my coffee table where we could catch the last of the daylight. The sun is setting so early, and I need your company more.
Miss you permanently,
Amelia
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