A letter of words unspoken.

Today’s blog is a dedication to the words I wish I could say to my mother face to face. I’ve spent the last year sifting through the truth, perceptions, and thoughts that came to life. I will eventually share the full story of her passing, but for now, this is what I need to share. Also, I apologize in advance if it makes you cry. If it makes you feel any better, I sobbed the entire way through writing it.

A letter of words unspoken.

Dear Mama,

I’m already crying. Just saying the word Mama brings tears because you’re not here to answer to the best name you were given. The pain is inevitable and very much alive. The reality is often suffocating. I’m pretty sure you would already be crying, with your lip quivering, but still managing to create a smile. The depth of that smile would carve a deepness in my memory that it could almost be heard. You would be proud to know that I am coming back to life. In small things, in big things, in all things. I wasn’t prepared for what your death would bring me to, or even who it would bring me to become. I lived off adrenaline for weeks. Distracting myself with the busyness of life, a new baby, moving, and the absence of having to find myself again… just this time, alone and without you.

But what else is there to say? I don’t want to go on giving you the sad parts I’ve had to work through, because you would always kindly decline attending a pity party. Indeed it has been grueling. Probably more grueling than i’ve allowed people to witness near and afar, because I still have to maintain a little privacy. It all fades for others after the burial has taken place. For me, your death was just beginning after that. I sat in front of that wall where your body laid everyday for months. Replaying and attempting to comprehend how this was a new reality. I would hear phantom noises of your chanclas in the kitchen, I could smell chiles on the stove, and even hear so clearly the sounds you made when you ate. These are the things that haunted me. Days of having to get through without a FaceTime chat or a funny meme. Coffee and sourdough toast to this day, doesn’t quite taste as divine without you sitting across from me in a fuzzy robe. These are the things I’ve lived without, but there are a few things I’ve grown into as well. And these things, I believe, would continue to make you proud.

I had a chubby baby with a lot of hair named Rhema Glory. Her birth was just that, glorious. It was as if you were present in the room when she came. I’ve never felt more calm or at peace than when I gave birth to her. She’s a lover of frijoles and sweet potatoes, just like your Luna girl. Now that one, she’s on another level. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I could picture you peeing your pants now because of how hilarious she is. Your life was so instrumental into who she has become. The memories you made with her are continually coming out of the etchings in her mind. Her heart is still yours and she always reminds us who her number one best friend is. Giann and I are still married, so that is a win. We often sit back and recall just how much you did for us over the years. I believe we have the marriage we do because of YOUR investment in our date nights, thoughtfulness, and caregiving. I still can’t wrap my mind around how much you gave to us with your time and selflessness. But, we still just miss your presence, your laugh, and man, your cooking. 

And again, I digress. A year. One whole year of choosing to take the day on. Heart full of sadness and fog. Taking almost an hour to get out of bed only to realize it wasn’t a dream. It was a tornado of destruction that left me in a completely new location with gravel and debris to put together. I assumed after a year I would be a little more healed, a little less sad, and a bit more motivated. But truth be told, your absence hurts more today than it did a year ago. You didn’t get to hold your granddaughter the day she was born, you didn’t snap a selfie on Lunas first day of preschool, you’ve missed countless birthdays. And every celebration without you still holds an obvious tension that something is missing; you. The joy and importance you brought to celebrations were LIFE giving. 

I miss you isn’t enough; it never will be. I know you didn’t want to leave, I know you wanted to fight, and I know I don’t understand… for now. I always imagined I would bury you in your 90’s. with a mexican mustache, a pancho, and a long white braid surrounded by your grandbabies. Saying goodbye almost 8 months pregnant on the morning of my baby sprinkle (that you kept insisting on having) and a full plan of moving you in was the hit I never saw coming. I replay that week in my head constantly. Furiously searching for the clues I needed for closure. 

On this side of earth I’ll never know why, how, or see the full picture of God’s plan, but knowing you were ready with all that was within you is all I need. It’s not just the big monumental moments, the holidays, or birthday celebrations that you’re only missed. It is the day to day. The morning sun with the sound of the birds that reminds me of our quiet times together. The midday calls of checkins and the sweet evenings over a home-cooked meal prepared with every ounce of love you contained. You’re missed in the seats of church, the sound of your voice worshipping in gratitude, and in the friendships you held together. You’re life was the very sense of a living, present Jesus.

Again, to say I miss you isn’t enough. Missing you is a constant ache that won’t completely heal, and that is okay. I endeavor to keep you alive in thoughtfulness, gratitude towards all things, and generosity towards others that is wrapped in your touch. Your love and legacy are very much alive - thriving in almost every single person you’ve touched. As your daughter, I won’t ever truly get over you being gone and I’m glad I don’t need to explain that. You were the best of everything I now know and for that, I am truly grateful God saw you fit to love me, nurture me, and shape me. Te amo, Mama.