Remember, Mom, when my elementary class would write messages and we’d tie them to helium balloons with our mailing address, and counting 1… 2… 3… release them? And together, we’d watch the flock rise up and up and up —above the roof of the school — above the tops of the trees — over the neighboring houses — up higher than the bravest of birds — until they were so UP that they looked like colorful blots — like Someone had pressed too hard with the Really Big Marker from the other side of the sky. I’d trace my balloon for as long as possible, my accuracy waning as the flock’s formation scattered like kids at the zoo, floating away on a wish and a whim.
But as the last lonely balloon drifted out of sight, I would ignite with the thrill of possibility. A “shy” child, a “quiet” child, I had found a meager but miraculous megaphone: My words were out there in the world — seeking the ears of any number of friendly strangers. WHO would be the first to hear them? Would they be my age or my teacher’s age? Would they live in another state? Another country? I’m sure I offered some physical description of myself, but would they wonder about me? I imagined, with some measure of pride, My Balloon: buoyant in the fiercest storms, elusive of snagging branches, evasive of curious claws, until, with balletic grace it made its dainty, deflating, descent into the outstretched arms of The Intended. Whether or not they responded, Someone out there would know there was a 7-year-old girl with dimples and green eyes and brown hair who loved cats and Shel Silverstein and was HERE.
…And remember, Mom, how you used to speak of The End, and how you didn’t want to “rot in a box”? You were to be cremated and scattered to “grow and sway with the flowers” — but you wanted a plaque (dammit) so that Someone would know you were HERE. Maybe all 7-year-old daughters and 68-year-young mothers make the same self-inflated wish: that we may be heard and seen and remembered in spite of — and because of — all our beautiful aspirations, accomplishments, failures, and imperfections.
So I’m writing your messages, Mom, and the ears of any number of friendly strangers will know there was a 68-year-old girl with warm brown eyes, curly brown hair, and a radiant smile who loved margaritas and Anne Murray and was HERE.
And these messages will say how you couldn’t really sing or dance, but loved to do it anyway. Especially the hambone. In front of everybody. And how you were so scared of so many stupid things like riding a bike (you might fall!) or driving to the grocery store (you might die!), that *I’ve* developed a blind obstinance to recognizing real danger when it’s right in front of me. These messages will say how furious I am that you depended so completely on Dad and the doctors for your own sense of safety, that you wouldn’t assert yourself even when you KNEW you felt another pneumonia in your chemo-ravaged lungs… And they’ll say how painfully proud I am that, when you finally realized it WAS up to you, you fought like hell — even when it was too late.
Can you believe that for 34 years I was terrified of becoming you?… and now I begin my 35th, rejoicing in our perceived similarities: “the biggest heart”, “an amazing smile”, “laughter that fills every corner with light”. Understand that I am beyond humbled by the fierce capacity for love you inspired within me — and yet I’m so very frightened by the vast hollow void you’ve left behind, because I am HERE… and you are not.
…
Though as I journey through the Here and Now without you, I remember (did you teach me?) that all of us are — that everything is — made of stardust. So maybe we’re ALL more similar than, at first, we’d like to think. (Yes Mom, even George W. Bush.) And the fiery hearts of young stars create helium. So maybe as I write these star-dusted messages, they’ll find their way up to you — floating on a piece of colored rubber and string — to the other side of the sky — where you’re pressing too hard with the Really Big Marker.