A Letter to my Mother

Dear Mom,

Today I packed your dreams for me up in boxes and put them away. Almost literally. Not that this didn't start happening this past summer, when I had to move home because I didn't have a job, at the age of 26. So much for all of that money spent on all of that education...

But today, as I de-dolled and de-dished my room, I realized that in a certain sense, it was unintentionally symbolic. Trying to distract myself from the embarrassment of not acting myself with a stranger a few nights ago, I decided it was time to figure out how to get my books out of the garage, where I've been worrying about them for the past few years, and into my room. Since they have always been my outlet for lack of love and dealing with the angst of living in this town, I decided I better get back in touch with them to prevent future idiocy from occurring.

To make room for them, I first had to pack away the dolls that you had filling up a box under my bed and taking up the top shelf in my bedroom, placed there in hopes of one day needing them to give to my nonexistent future daughters. Then I turned to moving out the dishes that were still unopened--dishes you bought me for Christmas the year you and Dad thought Charles was going to propose to me. They were an early wedding gift that you wouldn't send to me when I did have a place of my own on the east coast.

I'm sorry I'm not everything you had hoped. It was disappointing to me at first, too. But you know what? I think I'm a better person than who you and I once hoped I'd be. Maybe less happy, but more whole. I hope you understand that on some level, though I know you ache for healthy grandbabies. I watch your eyes light up and hear your voice reach new tones that I had forgotten you even had everytime you get to hold a baby and I know that if any woman was designed to be a grandmother, you were.