Dear Moms,

Three years ago we had our last conversation. I was so tired, having driven from Massachusetts to Michigan in one day, but I knew beyond knowing that I wanted to hear your voice. I had no idea it would be our last conversation. We didn’t talk long. You didn’t seem to want me to hang up, but we agreed we would talk again soon, when I was rested.

A few days later I was sitting in the sun peacefully playing poetry with G, writing about forget-me-nots and the ways in which I reminded myself of you and dad. Now that I was almost forty-five, you both were alive in my recollection. When Dad was forty-five, I was three; when you were forty-five, I was five. I recognized the tightening of my skin over my knuckles as I once saw in Dad’s hands; I saw my hair’s light greying at the temples as I once observed in yours (before you hid it). I was planning on sharing these observations with you.

As this third anniversary was approaching, something has been happening. I’ve been missing you in a way that transcends the pettiness of our old dance. At long last I am at peace seeing how much I am like you. Even in frivolous ways. I bought a black tote to house my handbag, journal, and book; when I brought it home I realized it looked exactly like you. What was in your bags that made them so big? I cannot recall more than a mini hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, various purses for coins and other treasure. A microcosm of your big life. It could have been simplified and consolidated, but why? You had a post-nuclear (depression era) way of keeping things. Lose one, you do not lose it all. (You once said your greatest regret was having only one child.)

I never had to think that way.

Last night I stood in front of a photo of you and Dad with me in your arms, and I said aloud with a catch in my throat: you did it. You gave me an amazing life. You showed me the world. You loved me and let me go. You supported me on my journey, often sending me farther than you expected or intended. I wasn’t always grateful, either. I didn’t see what you both were doing, the sacrifices you hid, the price tag on your lives. As child and parent now, I see. This is what we do. We don’t want them to know there is a cost. Love has no price tag, nor does the legacy we want them to keep when we depart.

Much I carry in my cells. Hours of joy we shared, hours I revisit in greater and greater quantity lately. I hear less of the bite and more of the melody.

Two things that you adored were travel and theatre. (Other loves like tennis came later, as I was leaving.) You not only shared these loves with me, your sheer delight in them is emblazoned in my memory. We saw the world together, often just the two of us, and I have noted more than once that your moods always seemed more stable. Overseas, I have absolutely no recollection of you raising a voice or hand on me. These were not short trips, either; they lasted months, years sometimes. I know now that sometimes you were escaping sadness, but it worked. We escaped what you often could not escape at home.

You seemed un-bottled, free on other coasts, in other lands, and I loved that. I believe I live in New England today partly because our years in England were so magical. On weekends we would train up to London, to the West End, where we would enter another universe. One of my most vivid moments was seeing Ingrid Bergman with you in Waters of the Moon at Theatre Royal, Haymarket. You explained to me the significance of seeing her in person; I felt like I was being presented to the queen, sitting in the royal circle (lower mezzanine) a few rows back.

The gentleman in front of us fell asleep for part of the show. During intermission, you whispered that I was a more respectful member of the audience than he! This may sound silly, but I’m not sure I have a prouder memory. Praise from you was hard wrought; on my best days, I felt like I was getting an A-. Always room for improvement. You were my first teacher.

But I am letting this go. This is the past I want to release.

A few weeks ago, I was in Philadelphia visiting S & B. “Before you go,” S said, “I want you to hear this song.” Rachel Bay Jones filled their living room singing “Anybody Have a Map?” from Dear Evan Hansen. The title alone conjures up the stew we parents face raising our teenagers. I wanted to hear more; I wanted to see the show myself.

A bee landed in my bonnet. But first I headed south to North Carolina for the weekend.

When I reached out to our cousins about a visit, the warm welcome I received was the oxygen I had been needing. In my own act of not showing the price of love, I sent G off on her well-deserved summer break knowing we would not be together for Mother’s Day. It did not occur to me that I was reaching in the other direction: to your people, your footprints, your heritage.

After five days on the road, I got home and felt flooded by all of the sadness I’d left behind. I took my tears to bed. Is this what it was like for you?

The next day I began looking through some of your old jewelry. I called a local place that recycles fine pieces, handed a few over, received a check, and said, “I’m off to Broadway!”

Throughout Dear Evan Hansen, I felt you nearby. I recalled your reports of shows you would catch after long hot days umpiring the US Open. SRO or last minute seating, no line was too long. No one could tell you a show was sold out. Better yet, you walked away from every experience with new friends from all over the world. A line was merely an opportunity. You were an artist at meeting people, and our world was the richer for it.

So, here I was with a ticket I did not sweat to obtain. Once again, it was given to me by you—a privilege to schedule time, place, and the company of a college friend. A few gold rings became a golden night. Ben Platt’s performance at the start of his career easily matched Ingrid Bergman’s near the conclusion of hers. I had goose bumps the entire time. Two weeks later I seized another chance to zip into the city, this time just for the day. This time with the black tote bag that reminds me so much of you, to see another extraordinary show, Come from Away, about the kindness of strangers. Perhaps even more apropos for my benefactor.

Each trip I’ve questioned and doubted myself, wondering about these indulgences. Each time the return has been one thousand fold. I worry about leaving my daily life to live like this; then I live like this and wonder how I’ll ever go back to my daily life. Is this how it felt for you?

One of the things I struggled to understand growing up was the limited amount you would reveal to me about yourself and your journey. It felt like you were deliberately erecting a wall between us. The root of all value in my life is connection through meaningful communication. This is my love language, a tongue you did not speak. I never understood why you withheld. Was it deliberate? Unconscious? I used to think it was designed to hurt me. At twenty-one I asked if we could be friends; you did not say yes.

At long last I accept that none of this matters. I also am floored (to use a word of yours) to discover how much I actually know. From talking to others, listening and reading—but also from just being there, next to you. Soaking up you. Being your daughter.

I see now how lucky that was. How much you shared and gave me even if it wasn’t in the currency of my native language. You gave me what you wanted to receive without measure. Isn’t that the best we can ever give? We are very different people, and I will never know it all. But in my heart—and in the days I stay on this side of the veil—you travel with me more whole and understood than ever before. I am deeply grateful for you, showing me the way.

As I celebrate your safe transition this week, I honor you in new and amazing ways. My cup is filled with more insight. The sting has dissipated. The love remains.

The healing circle feels a little bit more complete.

I wish we could speak, like this.

Love always