Dear Mom,

It’s been three months since I last wrote to you.

Sorry.

Life keeps getting in my way.

Not the best excuse, I know. But even with the lack of letters, I promise, I’ve been thinking of you.

October was an emotional month. My daughter turned one on the 7th. You would have turned 70. I ran the Chicago Marathon the following day and raised $1500 for Imerman Angels in your memory. It took me 7 hours to finish the race. Thinking of you and how happy you would have been seeing me pass by your condo got me across the finish line.

The 27th came quickly. I meant to light a Yarzheit Candle for you, but of course, as well as with everything else that has to do with religion, I forgot. Three years after your death and I’ve never managed to light that candle.

But I know, and I’m pretty sure you know, that none of it matters. My daughter took your birthday. I can’t mourn for you on that day anymore. The 27th, the traumatic day of your death, isn’t a day I’d like to remember you on. Even Thanksgiving, the day we illegally scattered your ashes in Lake Michigan, can’t be all about you. Mother’s day is now my holiday.

I wish I could find a significant date. A day that was important to us as mother and daughter, when I can spend my day thinking of you and all of the wonderful memories we’ve shared. But I don’t think that day exists and I don’t think it needs to. None of these dates make a difference. I think about you everyday. You are a part of me and my life and that can’t ever change.

I’m writing this letter to you to say hello again, but I’m also writing to tell you that I miss you and that I will always have you in my heart and on my mind. Even if I don’t always wish you a happy Mother’s Day or Birthday. Even if I don’t light a Yartzheit Candle on the anniversary of your death. Even if I don’t return to that icy spot near the Lake on Thanksgiving Day to remind myself of how terrifying it was to watch my husband almost slip into the Lake while tossing your urn into the water. I don’t need a day of significance to remember you. I don’t need a calendar reminder that you’re not here and that you will continue to miss every milestone in my life.

Every time I turn on Motown music and watch my daughter light up and start dancing, I think of you. Every time I eat Guacamole I think of you. Every time I wonder about why I put up with the winter, I think of you. And what I really think about the most, more than our wonderful memories and all that you taught me, is where you are at this very moment and whether or not you can see us.

I hope that there is some sort of afterlife and I hope it is perfectly assembled for each human. I hope your afterlife plays a lot of Marc Anthony and that there are some above average salsa dancers to accompany you on the dance floor. Your afterlife should be sunny all of the time. And when you’re tired of dancing and your feet hurt, I hope your afterlife has a giant LA-Z-BOY couch and a big screen TV that plays the final seasons of all the shows you never had the chance to catch up on. Your afterlife, where you can hang your hat (likely next to a howling coyote statue) and put up your feet, has got to be the most joyous place.

I miss you each moment of every day. But I sure do hope that wherever you are you are having a blast and making lots of memories.

Until I see you dance again I will dance for you. I will continue spreading the love you were cut short from spreading. I won’t forget you and my children will grow up to know how beautiful of a person you were.

I Love You, Mom.

Rachel