Dear Erin,
There are moments when I wish I could just will myself to stop breathing. The pain unbearable, indescribable, overwhelming. But my lungs continue to expand and contract, the oxygen coursing through my veins, powering my cells, fueling my brain and the images of our last days together. My life goes on while yours has ended.
Yesterday I found myself laughing hysterically at a story I was listening to on NPR. It was really very funny, something you would have appreciated. I thought to myself "how can I be laughing so hard when my daughter is dead?" Well, just as I cannot stop breathing, I cannot stop laughing or loving or any of the other things that constitute a life. I continue to eat and sleep, run errands and weep. I know that you would not want me to be swallowed up by my grief. You made damned sure that I would have a reason to get out of bed every morning. That little girl of yours snuggles up with me and says "Mamaw, can we wake up now?" I kiss the top of her head and say "yes, we can."
Love, Mom
A hundred times a day I want to talk to her. So I write letters and listen carefully for her reply.
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