Oops
Oops. I was rereading some mom-themed essays yesterday, a weird kind of grief therapy? and accidentally re-sent one, incomplete, after editing it a bit. It was In Defense of Anonymity. Already deleted, so if you want to go back to it, here you go. Maybe it wanted to resurface today. And upon reading the last paragraph, I’m glad it did.
I couldn’t write Mom that card this year, maybe the usual “I” too small for what I wanted to say. I needed the message to come from all the ways my love moves that aren’t signed or sealed or sourced. Perhaps even from a love beyond time, one generous enough to carry us both into this last chapter of her life, and beyond, where love no longer wears a name but returns to what it has always been. Unclaimed. Unending.
In defense of anonymity
Last month I sat down to write Mom a Mother’s Day card, as I have nearly every year since I could form sentences. My parents cultivated this ritual early; holidays marked handwritten letters, often double-sided, offering affection, maybe a little psychoanalysis, and a steadfast commitment to marking time with intention. Even during their turbulent years…
When I read your essays I realize that I’ve been looking at the world through the wrong end of the telescope. Thank you for looking at the universe through the proper end and sharing what you see. ❤️!