Letters to My Daughter – We Will Talk Until the End of Time

With a high ponytail, a pressed white coat, and a clipboard. This is how I imagine my daughter Emma. She’s standing in an exam room, a friendly physician assistant, but I can’t talk to her because I’m gone. Dead. The thought is so overwhelming that my mind is ice. In seconds a familiar anxiety tells me this problem is enormous and must be fixed, now.

Fortunately, a lovely and possibly lyrical solution materialized, writing letters to my daughter. I’ll tuck them between books and towels and stuff a stack in a big manila envelope. Funny, lighthearted, serious, silly, and instructive. Memories like the time Emma laughed long and hard because I called the boy sitting behind us on a train Luna instead of Luca. She was like someone during a springtime sneezing fit. I started laughing too, and we both couldn’t stop. When we share the story, no one thinks it’s funny, but we laugh again. The note about this would simply say, “Luna”. I’ll also write about times she shared a worry because there was space around us.

I’m writing in memory of my mom too. At first writing letters seemed like a simple solution to the fear that engulfed me as I thought about not being able to talk to Emma. I realized, as we often do later, that the impulse was also related to losing my mom. My mom died in an ambulance after hitting a wall. I remember her closet, days after she died, more than anything else. It was long and dim. I smelled her on everything: scarves, wrap dresses and blouses. Her perfume and her skin. She always wore wigs. Seeing a row on Styrofoam heads was surreal.

We never made plans to talk forever because she died so unexpectedly. She did not leave letter for her daughter. My mom had the most beautiful, loopy handwriting and a positive outlook. Her letters would be gems. I wish I could tell my children more about my mom, but there is so much I don’t remember.

Emma and I talk about oh-my-God things and the little details of our day, every day. The thought of not speaking is arresting. I’ve written Emma three letters so far, not very good ones. It’s hard to decide what to say. I don’t want to be corny or pedantic, but being real is hard. By the time I die, I imagine thirty-six thick, creamy sheets filled with everything. This way, we’ll continue our conversations, all the touching and mundane things that combine to become a part of your evolving identity. She’ll respond in prayer. I’ll whisper through clouds.

I would do anything for a letter from my mom. Fortunately, Emma and I will talk until the end of time.

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