Mother's Day

Dear Mrs. S.,

Every Mother's Day since Leslie died, I think of you. I want to send flowers, or a card, or something to let you know that I haven't forgotten her, and to thank you for raising her to be the kind of person she turned into.

When ever I find myself entrenched, as I often am, in following the straight and narrow, I imagine what she'd say to me. I went from college to grad school to marriage to babies. Never diverted off course. I sometimes wish I had.

I remember when I was holed up studying on the first warm days of spring, Les would drag me off to the quad to snooze in the sun. As I lay there next to her, I wondered how she would get through finals if she kept taking breaks like those. But she always did.

She also grabbed me from studying to go have a quick smoke in the back hall of the KD house. At the time, I thought we were being so rebellious, and I was sure Les would die from lung cancer one day.

I remember how she took an extra year to graduate, not because her grades were bad, but because she took her time. Time to do other things like play and think and dream and laugh. And a the time, I felt proud that I stuck the course and graduated right on time. Sure, I didn't have as much fun as she did, but I got the job done.

I remember how right after she graduated, while I was stuck in lecture halls in the midwest, she up and moved to New York City without a dime in her pocket. I had always dreamed of doing the same thing, and I promised her that I would join her. Just as soon as I was done with grad school.

While I spent my time agonizing over whether or not each guy I dated was The One, she was throwing herself head first into relationships, falling in lust over and over again. And while I fell apart with each breakup, she took hers in stride. She picked herself up, dusted herself off, and went off searching for an adventure, with or without a man. And then she would fall in love all over again. Or not.

I promised myself that one day I would travel, just as soon as I had enough on my bank account from my first job to do so. Of course, the rent and the student loans had to be paid, so it never happened. Meanwhile, Leslie charged tickets and traveled all over the world. At the time, I thought she was reckless and just a tad irresponsible.

I got married right after grad school, having never moved to NYC, never traveled, and never spending a single unscheduled moment in the sun. We drifted apart as she kept on being her, and I became more "grounded."

At the time, I was proud of playing the part of Good Girl, and was sure that Leslie's carefree lifestyle would catch up to her one day. I knew I'd be there for her if it ever did.

Ultimately, it wasn't recklessness that killed her, but a stupid freak fall. She wasn't don't anything careless, she was simply posing for a picture while on vacation. We hadn't spoken in about six months, simply because I was busy with the inane details of my life. So in the end, I wasn't there for her at all, and I couldn't forgive myself.

I never got the chance to tell you this, but I found out that Leslie considered me to be very much a part of her life towards the end of hers. Two days after I got back from the funeral, I received a post card from Puerto Rico, and when I saw that familiar back handed writing of hers, my heart lurched. She mailed it the day before she died, and in it she let me know how much she'd been thinking about me lately, that she missed me terribly, and that she would call just as soon as she got back so we could plan to see each other. On the front of the postcard was a Matisse painting, and I had the exact same one framed on my desk in college. She remembered.

Thank you so much for giving her the space she needed to grow into herself. She was larger than life, and you gave her enough guidance and love to ground her. You supported her no matter what she did, and she loved you more than you know.

By living each moment to the fullest, Leslie was able to cram into 29 short years more than most people ever do in a lifetime. She taught me to loosen up and enjoy life, and not to get mired down in the details. She taught me that the straight and narrow isn't that much fun and that we all need time to snooze in the sun.

I know that you must have hoped that Leslie would one day pass on to her own children all of the values and love for life that you instilled in her. I hope it gives you comfort to know that I am trying my best to pass those lessons on to my own children, and that the memory of your daughter guides me every step of the way.

Happy Mother's Day,
Katy