I just read an epistolary novel called The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. It reminded me of other novels of that genre that I read: 84 Charing Cross Road, Frankenstein, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, among them. Letter writing is a long-neglected art of communication. I decided to write a letter to my mother. She died in 2004 and although I was with her almost daily for the last four years of her life, there are still memories to share and things left unsaid.

Dear Mom,

I love you, and I miss you. It’s been over two decades since you left, and I haven’t heard from you, not even a little tweak or shadow.

I remember going to the movie Under the Tuscan Sun about two months after you died. In the movie, Diane Lane walked through an old Italian house when a pigeon flew over and pooped on her head. It made me laugh because I was reminded of the time we were walking across St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City, and a pigeon flew over you and plopped its poop on your forehead. In both instances, everyone around said, “Don’t be upset. That’s a good omen.” I wanted to leave the theater to call you to tell you about it and make sure you saw the movie too. Then I remembered you died. I think that was when I really grasped that you were gone, and I couldn’t share that memory with you again. It hurt. Grief takes so many forms as it comes and goes long after death.

Mother dear, I regret that we had so many years of misunderstandings as I was growing up. I didn’t get you, and you didn’t get me. Fortunately for both of us, Daddy was there to referee. The two of you had different theories on child-rearing. Yours was to set standards and rules and make sure I didn’t deviate from them. Dad’s was to let me make mistakes, take responsibility, learn, and move on. He believed “I’m sorry” was better than “Mother, may I”. I learned from both of you, but of course, gravitated to Daddy’s way of thinking.

It wasn’t until we went to Europe together, I in my thirties and you, at age sixty, that we really talked and got to know each other as adults. I admit I dreaded going alone with you. I thought we’d fight the whole time. You wanted to make reservations in advance for accommodations in every place we stopped, and I wanted to play it by ear and see what turned up. No strings. We compromised; you made reservations in half the cities, and in the remainder, I was responsible for finding our hotel, hostel, or B&B when we arrived. Your choices were lovely hotels; mine were eclectic B&Bs and one very questionable hotel. I apologize once again for the bedbugs. I love being lost in a foreign place, talking with strangers, and finding my way around. You wanted everything planned out to the minute. You started packing a month before we left, with each item of clothing wrapped in its own tissue paper cocoon, and I threw things in a small suitcase the night before. We survived three weeks together and became friends.

As a child and teen, I was always pulling your chain, exploring the outer limits of the rules, as you tried hard to draw me back into line. I’m grateful we had twenty years to make it better, and I know we were great friends when you died. You left an indelible impression on my children. I’m glad they were adults by the time you died. They all have great memories of you. You are a wonderful grandmother.

Much love and gratitude, Diana