Are You There Mama? It’s Me Julie

Saying goodbye to Mama the last time I saw her

Saying goodbye to Mama the last time I saw her

Dear Mama,

When God calls an angel home, there’s no turning it back.  That much I know.  The one sure thing about life, is death.  Three months, seven days.  Seems like longer than that.  But that’s how long it’s been since you left us.  Daddy is being really strong, but he misses you so.  Still.  He lifts and encourages us, and keeps putting one foot in front of the other.  That’s what you’re supposed to do.

There’s just one problem.  It seems that when you passed on, you took my writing voice with you.  I keep coming here.  I open my blog.  I log in.  I start a post.  Nothing happens.  I try again later.  Three months of this.

The problem is, we’ve been so focused on Daddy, holding on to him for dear life.  Five years ago, the doctors gave him four years to live.  We’ve successfully gotten him to write his history, which I’m working on publishing here.  But no one prepared us for your sudden departure.  In your family, it seemed that people either died in their 60’s or lived into their 80’s.  I’ve been watching you closely through your sixties.  You made it past 65.  You made it past 68.  I knew at 70, it would have been decided that you would live into your 80’s.  You would have turned 70 about two weeks after your passing.  So you see.  In my little girl mind, we were safe.  You were going to be with us for a while.  Funny how God wrangles all our ideas about how this life works.  I had written a piece on daddy here.  About a month before you left, I wrote one on you.  All of my little girl thoughts about you.  All the pieces I’d put together about the childhood you would never talk about.  It was beautiful.  It was emotional.  It took me two days to write.  And in one of those unfortunate and unintended key strokes, I erased it.  I tried for a week to retrieve it.  I didn’t feel I could write it again.  It took everything out of me emotionally.  So I left it.  And then I got the phone call that you collapsed in church.  It wasn’t even the hereditary heart attack that took everyone else in your family.  It was an aneurysm.  And now.  Every time I try to come here to my safe place to write, to pull things out of the places deep and away…I can’t.  Because I have to finish that piece and I can’t do it.

Three months and seven days.  The colors are all wrong in my world now Mama.  The blues are grey.  The greens are wishy washy, like a water color painting, and the birds don’t sing anymore. The rain is all the tears I won’t let myself cry.  I don’t like to cry.  The chronic pain that has trapped me in bed for nearly two years, is intensified when I allow the weeping to come.  So the rain does it for me.  And you have my voice.  I can’t write anymore Mama.  You took it with you when you left.

And I would very much like for you to return it please.


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