the things I want to tell you

thoughts for my late mother in honour of her 74th birthday tomorrow

After you died there were many boxes, many items. Not always things that I wanted and often things I didn’t know what to do with.

I knew your shoes would fit, so I took all of those without thinking. I wore a pair of black ones for years. I never liked them. I thought they were old and orthopaedic-looking. I was 31 then. But they were yours, so I wore them for that reason alone.

When you were sick and we were cleaning out your closet I pulled a dress out and you smiled at me from your resting place. “I always loved how I felt in that dress,” you said. I remembered you wearing it and dancing with Dad at the community hall. It had a red patent belt, I got rid of it. Sorry about that. It just wasn’t for me. The dress hangs in my closet now but every time I think about wearing it the shoulder pads hold me back. My silhouette nods towards linebacker.

There are so many things I think of telling you. They come to mind every day. Questions to ask and stories to share. And anyone who thinks I can just say it because “she’s listening” can go pound sand. I don’t want you to listen to me. I want your laugh and your wit. I want you to get annoyed with my asshole jokes and tell me to shut up and go away.

Also, I thought I should FaceTime you last week which is completely stupid because that didn’t even exist when you were alive.

I’d like to know how you and Dad settled on choosing the rust coloured carpet in the farmhouse living room. It was magnificent. It repelled everything with its short pile and as a child I thought that vacuuming it was a special pleasure. The rows created by the Electrolux power nozzle were so satisfying.

I’d like to talk with you about the books that you read to us every night. The Dr. Seuss collection that you amassed sits on the shelf in my son’s room. You told me once that I would call you out for skipping pages in them — that I had them memorized. Your grandson has a real thing for two Oliver Jeffers’ books and I now I understand the tedium of repetition you were getting at.

If we talked today I would ask about recipes and travel plans and whose kids are doing well in school and I’d ask why you get your husband to apply highlights to your hair when he is so very unqualified and you can certainly afford to hire a professional.

I would tell you how my day was and ask what you think your weekend will bring.

I would tell you that there’s a pint of your Christmas pudding in my pantry. You gave it to me before you died, so it’s over 13 years old now and I can’t throw it away. One of your sisters told me to eat it, which is absolutely insane because botulism, but also insane because then it would never even be possible to eat something that you made ever again. But also, if we could talk today you’d be alive and I wouldn’t have a jar of 13 year old canned goods in my kitchen cupboard.

One of your boxes was just a shoebox. There were mostly papers inside – a random assortment of personal and work correspondence. My favourite was from 11 years prior to your death when your union came up with a plan just in case the 999 turning to a 000 spelled catastrophe for healthcare professionals. Who knew that the actual catastrophe for your colleagues in our province was the next premier and his government? Ok… YOU did, but wow. I think you still would have been gobsmacked.

In the shoebox were also two pairs of eyeglasses. One I recognized from your 20s and the other I remembered you wearing in the ‘80s.

As a lark, I removed my own glasses and put on the ones you wore when I was a kid. I turned around to show my love how silly I looked, and to be a jerk about your available fashion choices. If only I had a photo of my face when I peered through the lenses. Everything was in perfect focus. Our prescriptions as adults were precisely the same.

You were mine.

I am yours.

A link never to be broken or diminished no matter how the years may pass.

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little jack films