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“It’s important to tell the people you love how much you love them while they can hear you.”

– uncredited memeish thing

Dear Mommy,

The other night I did a lot of listening at the USMC birthday celebration, and as much as I will never fully understand a Marine’s perspective because I’ve never worn the boots, I could hear the unsaid.

The loveliest words you ever said to me were, “People gravitate to you and open up to you because you naturally understand people. Why aren’t you a counselor?” I still don’t know… I don’t know if I’m running from it or just moving towards it on an atypical path. You of all people know me. When have I ever been ordinary even though I thought I was?

You’ve come to mind a lot lately, starting on 30 October, the 40th anniversary of your mom’s death. I was only seven years old, and for whatever reason I was home from school when you got the call.

I got almost four years less with you than you did with your mom. You were 49 when she died, but you left the Philippines in 1966 and returned for a visit in 1979.

Did you miss your mom more when she was alive and distance separated you?

Or did you miss her more when you knew you wouldn’t see her on earth again?

At least I could drive a few hours to make it back home to see you and Daddy any time. I may have had four less years, but I’ll take quality over quantity.

When the call came, you were probably letting me skip a day because I said I missed you. That’s when you worked nights, leaving for work soon after Daddy got home, returning home while everyone was still asleep. You helped us get ready for school, then slept during the day, but I never thought about the sleep you missed when you I volunteered you for something at school. I also was too young to notice that in being there for the kids, you and Daddy were missing time together.

This morning I wrote a Facebook post to honor military spouses because of you. I better see and understand the struggles and sacrifices you had as the wife of a submariner. You sometimes endured months without letters or calls while he was deployed, and these days with technology some people get upset if their partner doesn’t text back fast enough. Sometimes we don’t appreciate how good we have it.

This year, people have been given the gift of time with their families because of stay-at-home orders related to coronavirus. Sometimes my heart hurts to see them complain about their kids driving them crazy, but then I see the ones who appreciate being able to have more waking hours with them. We never get that time back, and I love you and Daddy for everything you did to make it possible for you to stay at home and raise our family when we were very young.

You filled the house with music whether you were playing the piano or playing the stereo. I could spend hours listening to my records on your old, green record player, but I didn’t really hear or understand some songs until I was older. I’m actually kind of surprised you didn’t ask me if I knew what Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” was about, and I don’t know if you just learned to tune me out and weren’t listening, but how the fuck can you not say anything when your elementary schooler is singing, “nothing to talk about unless it’s horizontally”???

You were my best supporter and toughest critic when it came to playing violin, and just like it was in the few years that I took dance, you asked, “Why can’t you be more graceful?” Let’s face it, for a little girl, I am, as they say, a bull in a china shop. At that age, I’d venture to guess I lacked the maturity for communicating through instrumental music. In part of the Mozart G Major, Susan Stephenson suggested a passage was flirtatious. I might could get it now, but at 16, not so much.

When I moved on to voice, you were never short on suggestions for songs you wanted me to sing. I learned to hear you through your actions even if you never came out and said I was better at singing than playing violin. Romberg’s One Kiss from The New Moon remains my favorite recital song. (Huh?! We have a new moon on Saturday…) Nowadays I just fuck around with my ukulele and my outtakes are better entertainment than doing a good job on a song. You loved my laugh but hated my free-flowing use of “fuck”, but maybe you’re cool with it now because I’m just being me. And if it adds light to someone else’s day, I’m fulfilling my mission.

After you died, I found the last Christmas card you picked out to send me and the Keets. The inside reads:

“Families like yours
are the number one reason
there’s so much to love
in the holiday season.

Everything heartwarming,
happy and bright –
That’s what you bring
with your joy and your light.”

The other day I felt “emerald” and Esmeralda signified your presence. Then I remembered your mom’s name, Estrella… “star”. I come from a lineage of sparkles; therefore, I am meant to shine.

You let me be your parasite for 39 weeks, and even with no physical umbilical connector anymore, I came from you and your mother and all mothers before and had almost 46 years to listen while I could still hear you. And the amazing thing is I still hear you. When I shut the fuck up, including my head, I can hear my heart, I hear you. (Hey! Remember the time you said that I led too much with my heart? I’m finding balance and learning how to use it as a tool.)

Oh, and there’s also the times the first thought when I wake up is a song, like this one you left for me on your birthday last year. And let’s not forget this shit you threw at me a few weeks after you died. I wasn’t numb to your death; you just did a really fucking good job at making sure our time together throughout our lives and as you were dying was quality, not quantity. I had to go to therapy because I thought I wasn’t grieving, but hmm, turns out that I was letting other people’s expectations and projections of themselves become mine. I guess it wasn’t time for me to start being ordinary. And now isn’t the time either.

I really don’t miss you every day. And I know that sounds like a shitty thing to say, but anyone who goes beyond listening to me say the words and hearing what I mean will understand.

And maybe anyone who reads this post and heard what I was saying without spelling it out will “get it” and share it. Maybe you’ve inspired them. I come from a line of women who sparkle and shine.

Thank you for always supporting me even when it wasn’t easy, Mommy.

Luceat lux vestra.