almost May 21

Dear Mom or Maman, as you liked to be called,

How have you been doing this past year? Do you still wait for me to call you? Do you still stand at the door waiting to greet me when I travel to California? I always felt and feel so eager to see you, so full of love, as I know you felt.

But after about 15 minutes, after you played your version of Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor as you always have, I began to merge with the chair, the floor, silent, flattened. You didn't mean any harm. You needed attention. You needed to compete and win. Howard could give you some attention, but he knew how to set boundaries. Jan2 knew all about boundaries. Dad just remained silent. I don't know how my sibling dealt with it all, because now she presents her myth that all was perfect. I have tried to protect her, and always will.

I felt and feel sorry to let you down -- squashed, speechless, and yet determined to try to make you happy. I wanted to continue the charade until your last breath. Did I succeed? Did I manage to hide my truth with dad from you? Save you from more anguish?

You had your own demons, didn't you. I could sense a Virginia Woolf desperation beneath the chatter. You couldn't abide silence. Grandma made it clear that you needed attention, even more than what she demanded of you. You made it clear that you needed protection. My shoulders rise as I write this; I'm still not certain from what I needed to protect you. Yourself? Loneliness? Your own underlying anxiety, behind the talkative, seemingly non-stop enthusiasm?

It's been quite a year without you. I plan to grow now. I hope you don't mind. I have a support group of dear friends with whom I can now interact as an adult. I remember that happy, singing eight-year old. I think I found some of her impish giggles for months, until this past month. I will think of you when I wear your knitted sweaters, travel places we have been, hear sirens, plant trees, or see a woman talking endlessly with her mouth full of food and asking ceaseless questions. You couldn't wait for my increasingly stumbling answer. Especially if we neared the truth. That lack of boundaries. Did you grow to think I was you?

You took my voice. I know you didn't mean to in a bad way. You needed to live through my successes. So I stopped singing, I guess. Did you need me to "take care of" your husband, too?

We'll just never know or discuss it, will we. I succeeded there, as I intended. Now I need to run, Mom. Time to grow. I'll toss petals of an orchid on Sunday and think of you.

love,

P

Do the dead read letters? Do they have high-speed internet access?

"Dear Maman," wrote Poor Pitiful Pearl.

"I'm so sorry that you died. I wanted to pick up the phone to call you tonight, to tell you that we finally used the Tap-on Lights you bought us several years ago." Pearl's mom had ordered them from some television shopping channel. After Hurricane Katrina had wiped out New Orleans, some Alaskans had realized that FEMA and the rest of the government would offer little immediate help when the large 'quake hit. Pearl's husband had bought tons of batteries and fixed up two of the Tap-on Lights.

"I was a little frightened by the sudden darkness, mom," Pearl continued. "I thought some part of Alaska had just rearranged itself seismically. The little dome light illuminated a part of the room as we moved methodically throughout the house, turning off computers and the beeping UPS backup systems. And finally, when I sat down by the fireplace and next to the dogs, I just felt so sad that I couldn't and can't call you. Ever.

"Feel so sad, not felt," Pearl amended. "Now that you've stopped talking and being such a large presence in my life, with so much static, I have room to appreciate what you tried to do for your daughters, how frightened you must have been in the Army in WWII and how that affected you forever, the nice things, the thoughtful loving things, and how you said you knew I loved you and would miss you."

Pearl paused. She wondered if now was the time to vent a little anger.

"The lights have come back on, Maman. But not for you and me. Where were you when I needed you most? Did you not see what was going on in our house? Were you abused, too? Is that why you could not see? Or chose to deny or ignore? Why? Do you know how many decades passed in anxiety and depression and confusion and keeping others away, fearful that I might hurt them, not knowing who I could trust? Did you feel so guilty about your suicidal mother living with us that you just couldn't help your own daughter?"

Who can now help herself, Pearl thought. Self-soothe, learn to trust certain people with tentative, pragmatic steps, learn to trust the real Pearl, and perhaps gradually loosen the knots that held her.

"So you see, mom. Just as with dad, I love you, I loved you, and you confused the hell out of me. As did dad. Good things and really heinous actions and words. But I kept the secret to protect you. And to try to keep the peace my sister craved. Thanks for the little lights.

love, Pearl"

what if

Pearl listened to her husband as he snored, in synchrony with the two dogs. The dogs snored at a lower octave. Tonight the dog on the bed snored while lying on her back, four paws flopping in the air.

What if I were not here, Pearl wondered. What if the universe had not sent me to a place where I would meet this kind, snoring man. What if he hadn't had a small yappy silky terrior who taught me to love dogs, even yappy ones. What if we hadn't moved to the northern hinterlands? What if we hadn't found a woman who raised Labs?

Pearl paused. Is this meaningful, she wondered. She'd heard many times about the importance of writing one's thoughts. Growth, people said. Get's you through the loss of death and helps you grow.

Only eight more months to complete a year of loss. One birthday down, the holidays and an anniversary and Pearl's own birthday to go.

I miss my mama, Pearl thought. Guess no quite gets over that in just one year. Listening to the snoring might help her sleep. This was her family now. Is her family, she corrected.