A Legacy of Letters

My mother passed away on April 4th.   It was a sacred honor to share her last moments with her.

I had no way of knowing that when I wrote the post a month ago about sending condolence cards that I would be on the receiving end again so soon. Yet there they are, coming in many ways in recent days–on my desk when I returned to work, in the mail, and hand delivered with food or flowers.  And each message has been a sweet gift of memory, comfort or support.

This weekend, as we went through my mother’s belongings, we found anniversary cards from my father, birthday wishes from my grandmother, and encouraging notes from her best friend.  A life’s big and small moments recounted in these cards, leaving sweet traces of the loving circle of family and friends with whom she shared her life.  I enjoyed finding the many cards and notes I sent her, kept with the rest.

And I found cards that she had filled out and not yet sent.  So I forwarded those on to their intended recipients, hoping to close the circle and bring a smile to their faces, knowing that she thought of them fondly, too.

a tree I drew in my work journal

A family’s legacy

In the mix, I found a journal I gave my mother twenty years ago.  I had encouraged her to write down her thoughts, stories and family lore.  This one, like others I had given her, was largely blank save the first four pages.  But those pages are more precious to us than gold.  In them, she shared loving thoughts of her daughters, a memory of her father, a quote from my father, and the story–that none of us knew–of how she got her nickname,  Teenie.

These pages served as a reminder that when people die, they often take their stories with them.  And when our parents pass, they take many of our own stories with them, too.  I would hear my parents’ stories so often, it seemed I could never forget them.  Panic set in once mom was gone, because the stories seemed to evaporate, too.  I seem only to have wispy fragments. I wish I had more of them written in her hand.

But these few must somehow be enough.

This weekend’s explorations of my mother’s legacy–and the letters and cards she received and the notes she left–reaffirmed for me the power and purpose of connecting through the written word.  Go write down your stories in your hand.  Send a letter.  Share your love and thoughts and encouragement with others.  These become part of your legacy and theirs.

Do it now. There is no time to waste.

 

 

 

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