Morrigan's blog: "I rant...therefore I am."

Dear Mom,

We weren't always nice to each other. You were an infuriatingly stubborn old bat. We fought tooth and nail over what was best for you and what was best for our family. You were cranky, frustrating, and a complete and total nag. You drove me insane with your need to leave the T.V. on 24 freaking hours a day, your constant concern over your yappy little dog, and your meddling in the way I raised my children. I couldn't leave the house for more than 5 minutes without you calling me, worried about me and nearly in tears. In the last few years, you became anxious about everything. You pictured me in a car accident, you pictured me lost and alone, you even pictured me in jail if I was out of your sight for too long. I had no freedom. I had no life outside our home. I had no friends with the exception of your old persnickity ass. I complained all the time about how crazy you were driving me.

And I loved you more than words could ever express. Probably more than you ever suspected.

As I sit here now, I remember all of those things that used to annoy me with fondness and regret. You were only fighting to hold onto your independence, even as your body's failures ripped it from you. You were only worried about me because you loved me and needed me. You only meddled and nagged because you wanted to be heard...you wanted to leave your mark on us. And, in that, you've succeeded. Even now, your voice is inside my head with every decision I make. I want to do everything right, Mama. I want to make you proud.

But most of all, I just want you back.

I used to long for silence, but now I find myself turning on the T.V. to fill the emptiness that the quiet carries with it like an anchor. The couch that you loved and that I never really liked sits empty...as if it has become some sort of shrine to the woman who used to sprawl across it because, somehow, the bed was never as comfortable as the soft foam and roomy enormity of the ugly brown sectional. We come home and unlock the door only to be confronted by this deafening silence...this void that will never again be filled.

We tell stories of your antics. Rememberances of your stubborn refusal to believe that the rules applied to you as they did to everyone else. Your lighting up a cigarette in the middle of Wal Mart because they refused to let you take the ride-on cart outside. Your illogical and somehow pornographic insistance that skinny men had larger dicks than fat men did. Your little quips and jabs when you didn't like someone the kids had brought home, or even, looking farther back, when I brought home a new boyfriend. And you never liked any of them, did you, Mama? They were never good enough to be associated with your family. They never quite measured up.

You taught me everything I know. You molded me into the person I am today. You gave me a standing ovation and a dozen roses when I was inducted into National Honor Society. You painstakingly crafted my constume when I had a dance recital. You held my hand when we crossed the street. You continued to hold it when I gave birth to my children. You were the first person to hold my son when he entered this world and the first to kiss the top of my daughter's head when she cried. You were my angel. You were my rock. You were my best friend, even when I didn't know it...even when I didn't want you to be. I am lost without you.

I am 37 years old and I can't recall a single day of my life when I didn't hear your voice. Sometimes, I hear it still. People keep telling me that it's going to be okay, but they don't know. They don't understand that, in losing you, I've lost so much of myself. I've lost a large amount of my purpose, and now I'm fumbling around in the dark, unable to find the light switch. I know I'll find it eventually, but even then, when those bulbs burst into life again, the light will never quite have the same quality...the same ability to drive away the shadows and chase the monster out of the closet.

I miss you, Mama. I miss you so much that it is an ache deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe. But I don't know how to say goodbye to you. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe we never quite say goodbye to the people who made us what we are. Perhaps you live on inside me. In my thoughts. In my choices. In everything I do. Maybe, when I hug and kiss my children good night...I'm also hugging and kissing you.

So, I'll just say I love you and, you don't have to worry anymore. I'll be fine. I am your daughter, after all.