Dear Mom,

A couple of months ago, I was gifted a magical book called The Book of Alchemy by Suleika Jaouad. You would have absolutely loved this gem of a book, the writer, and most definitely her musician husband. It breaks my heart when I’m reminded how many beautiful people you don’t even know about. How many songs you’ve missed. How many words you’ll never read. Including the words in this letter. Beyond what you have missed, it feels as if I’m in a constant state of realization regarding how much I’m missing due to your absence. There are the obvious things like not having my kids grow up with their grandma and my not having my mother here to give me advice through my adulthood. But what’s really starting to affect me is not having your memory. Not having your side of my story.

The Book of Alchemy is comprised of daily writing prompts which I have been determined to complete each day. I’m currently halfway through the book and, so far, I haven’t missed a single day. However, there are many prompts I barely answer. In fact, there are some entries that mainly consist of my writing, “I don’t remember.” So, I’ve been thinking a lot the last few weeks about memory in general. Why is it that so much of what I remember is hazy? Why are so many moments completely gone? And would you be able to help if you were still here?

I’ve wracked my brain to remember names of teachers. Names of classmates. Names of enemies and friends. I’ve closed my eyes and searched the darkness in an attempt to remember more of my childhood. My memories are fleeting. It’s like I have these computer-generated images of faces in the background of my life, but I can’t tell if they’re real or just for show to fill the space.

Last week I wrote about how absent you were from my childhood. But I know, deep down, you weren’t always missing. I can feel your presence in my bones. I just can’t fully remember it. I can’t picture you.

When I close my eyes and imagine myself as a little girl, I’m always alone. In that scary playroom in the basement. On my bedroom floor with Barbies. Lying on the couch watching cartoons. But I’m starting to doubt my own memories. Is there a possibility that you were there? That you were actually sitting on the couch with me? Sitting on my bed watching me play? Hanging out in the basement doing laundry? Were you there and I just don’t remember? Were you there for me in your own way? Not entirely present, but still around?

Too bad I’ll never truly know. I only have one side of my story. And unfortunately, my source material is a child from over thirty years ago. Can she even be trusted?

I’m aware that memory is a tricky process. I know I have memories that aren’t mine. Stories I was told so many times they became real images in my brain, yet I can’t possibly remember them. Pictures I’ve seen of me as a baby. My first birthday. That day while living on Cortez Street in Ukrainian Village when David and I were playing in the snow after a blizzard. Soon after I went inside, a reporter or photographer from the Tribune or some other newspaper came by and snapped a picture of David which ended up in the paper. This was a story I heard enough that I can see it. But I was two maybe three at the time and I’m confident I don’t remember it. Then there are memories I convinced myself happened but I’m not really sure anymore. Conversations I had that could have belonged to someone else. Memories I created by trying to minimize the truth. Moments I altered to make myself feel better. I’ve twisted so many of my own memories I’m now questioning my reality. It’s how I’ve managed to get through the toughest of times and how I’ve managed to convince myself that my most traumatic of moments were nothing more than a teenager giving her own version of consent. I filled my brain with what I needed to survive and now I’m not sure what’s real.

If you were alive, could you remember my story? If I asked you the names of my teachers, could you recall them? My friends? My biggest accomplishments and worst mistakes? And if you could recall them, could your memories of mine even be trusted? If I told you I felt like I was alone all the time as a child, would you agree? If I told you I felt forgotten, would you have a different perspective? Could your memory change my own mind?

It destroys me that I’ll never know. I’ll never know your perception of my childhood. I’ll never know how you felt back then. What you experienced from the other side. Did you lay in bed at night regretting not being there for me enough? Did you wonder if you should’ve made a different decision? If, perhaps, it could have been better if you had put more of your energy into the living instead of the suffering? Did you even entertain those sorts of thoughts? Or did you feel that you put more effort into me than your own mother had for you? And that was enough?

If I knew how you felt back then, and knew how often you were actually around, I feel I could do a better job of moving on from my own past. I could grow from your side of my story. And it feels like I’m stunted. It feels like I’m still that six-year-old girl waiting for you to pick me up from that woman’s house we’d go to some days after school where we’d eat popsicles and watch movies starring Big Bird. I’m still waiting for you to pick me up from Mary’s house where you left us for days while you and Dad went on business trips. I’m still waiting for you to return and relieve the babysitter who was entirely unqualified for the gig. I’m still waiting for you to come check on me. To comfort me. To rub my back, wipe my tears, and tell me it’s all going to be OK. I’m still waiting for your side of my story.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll be satisfied with the fragments of memories I do hold. And maybe one day I’ll be able to fill in the missing pieces of my backstory on my own. Until then, I’ll continue writing to you about what I do remember and hopefully I’ll be able to spark new old memories so I can get closer to feeling whole.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel