I haven't written in a while. A long while. Oh, I have plenty of excuses...some of them are even valid.

It's true that I've been busy. Enormously busy. Busier than I would like, actually. It's also true that I've been spending time with my love. He is my motivation for getting out of bed each day. We've had a lot of catching up to do after not only being apart for nine months but starting a new home in a new country.

These are all valid reasons why I haven't written.

They are also just excuses.

Ask me if I'm happy, and I will answer with a hearty yes and a cheerful smile. I will mean it, too. My life is blessed--more so than I deserve. And I am thankful for my blessings, God.

But I have a hole in my heart. And I'm avoiding it. If I don't look at it, you see, I can pretend that it's not there.

I am living this most amazing life right now. I am in a beautiful place with the most beautiful person in the world, my darling J. I am seeing things I would never imagine seeing. I am meeting people and learning things and experiencing culture that could never be gleened from a book. I have people who pay me to speak English to them so that they can hear my "lovely" voice and "poetic" way of speaking and then try to imitate them.

But in this country where family is most important, I am reminded every day that a piece of mine is gone. And now, during the holidays, the time for families to gather and share and relive memories and traditions, I realize that I will never again know the joy of sharing a holiday with my mother.

My childhood was magical. It was what a childhood should be. It was not without its difficulties and problems, but those, too, are what make the childhood experience whole. But through it all, I had a shining star to show me the way. There was a calm presence at the center of everything I did. She was the center. She kept me centered.

My center is gone. And although I grieve her, I have not yet mourned. I'm afraid that if I do, I will let her go. And I don't want to.


I wrote a letter to my mother today
a letter she'll never get
why do words on a piece of paper seem more real
than those merely thought
or spoken?
there's some undeniable permanence in putting ink to paper.
thoughts not written remain secret
but here--
ink flows into paper
forming hopes and dreams
--memories shared--
and there's no going back;
it's real.
and maybe someone will see this, read this,
ask about this,
and a fleeting memory will spring to life in vivid detail,
details that ache to be shared,
until the sharing leaves me with more than I started.

is that why I still write letters to her?
is that why I love to share her memory?
do I hope that my words will make someone else see her,
feel her,
that they will make her real?
why does it matter?

because I'm afraid of losing her
because she's already gone, and I haven't
I can't
I won't
I don't know how
to let go

because I don't know who I'm afraid of losing--
her

or me.