Dear Mom,
You were such a great gift giver. Each gift you selected had the perfect mix of sentimentality and functionality. Somehow, you could pick something someone needed before they even realized it. At times, it was a gift that seemed random, but you always knew it served a purpose. Like my 13th birthday when you bought me my own custom wax seal with a set of different colored waxes. As a teenager who wanted a Coach purse initially I was not thrilled. Then the seal ended up on every piece of paper I could get my hands on. You knew how much I liked writing letters and found a way to make them special.
I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts lately. More specifically, things. Items. I always say that, “to be loved is to be known.” Gift giving in its purest form is showing the people you love that you understand them. It could be a pack of gum or a diamond necklace. There is no gift more special than a gift that makes you feel seen. You had a knack for making people feel loved. Your niece when she said she liked your sweater and you took it right off and gave it to her. The handbag you dumped the contents out of to give your cousin when she commented on how cute it was. They were just items to you. To your family, that was love.
I’m a firm believer in sentimentality. There is a reason my apartment is a collection of birthday cards, business cards, ticket stubs, and souvenir cups. Each item is connected to an experience. To a person. Everything I save is a collection of memories. I cherish memories dearly. There will come a day when memories are the only thing you have left.
Memory is beautiful but painful. When you first died there were too many to handle. I could not bear to look at anything written in your handwriting. Your coats hanging in the closet. The cracked teapot Ryan and I painted for Mother’s Day. Our matching infinity scarves from the vendor in New York. All of your things were still here but you weren’t.
Going through your closet a couple months after you died was a blur. A flurry of putting things into bags and handing off items to various people. I wish I could remember more. Had taken a moment to say, “it’s too soon I need these things.” Just like your random gifts, I didn’t know I needed them yet. All these items represented at the time were loss and unbearable grief. They had to go away.
The things I did save felt like memories I tried to relive over and over again. I’d put your red flannel on and imagine it was your arms around me. The smell of your YSL Opium was enough to think you walked into the room. The Ménage à Trois wine t-shirt I still wear and hear you scolding me as a six year old for gleefully shouting, “Ménage à Trois!” at any opportunity. Over the years these items have felt less like loss and more like love. I can separate the pain of your death from wanting to remember you. I can look at the birthday cards you wrote and not stain them with tears. The morning tea poured in your favorite mug without it tasting like sadness. Smiling when my cousin wears your sweater. Their existence no longer carries the same weight.
Recently I’ve discovered more of your things. At Christmas while looking for a shirt to sleep in, I found a whole drawer of your sweaters at the bottom of Dad’s closet. It was a bittersweet surprise. Some of the sweaters still had their Bloomingdales tags. I found the brown sweater you wore to my first choir concert. The red sweater we said you looked like Elmo in (which you hated). I sat on the floor and cried. They didn’t hold your smell anymore but they hold you.
Sometimes though, things can just be, things. They don’t need to carry the emotional memory they used to. My favorite collared shirt is a hand-me-down from an ex boyfriend. The glass vase I put flowers in is from a former best friend. I no longer have an emotional attachment to the people and memories of these items. I love them as things. I’m learning I can do that with you. While cleaning my closet in the new year I came across the last Christmas present you ever bought me. A pair of beat-up riding boots I haven’t worn in years. I’ve carried them to two different dorms and five apartments. The thought of getting rid of them felt like losing a memory. Losing a piece of you. That day I reminded myself that I will always have the memory of our last Christmas together. I can let go of these shoes and still keep you. They went into the Goodwill bag and my heart survived.
The best gifts you left me with aren’t physical. Yet I will forever cherish the items you left. I know I can find you in them but they don’t have to devastate me. They are loss and love enduring. Everytime I wear your sweaters I will remember they are a part of you but not all of you. Just like you are a part of me but not all of me. I am more than just the items I collect. I am all of my memories and memories to come.
I wrote this letter after a night with friends and red wine on my couch. Just the way you’d do it. I feel very loved and seen by them. The way you’d want it. You came up a few times. Your legacy is the gift that keeps on giving. Happy Birthday mom. I love you more than any item in the world.
Forever,
Marissa
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