Love, Helen

Dear Reader, This is my story, hidden in the deepest recesses of my soul, my journey of slowly cleaning out the closet in my heart, following the death of my beloved mother more than thirty years ago. The year was 1992. In 1992, my husband, daughter, and I were happily vacationing on the coast of Spain. On July 14, someone knocked on the door of our little villa with a telegram in hand. I knew it could not be good news. I raced to a phone to call my brother in Ohio, then nearly collapsed when he informed me that our mother had died suddenly of a heart attack. Died? No, no, no It must be a mistake, I thought. After all, we had just spoken nine days earlier. I was not prepared to lose my mother. Just fourteen years earlier, at the age of twenty-six, I had faced the sudden death of my father. Not again. Not now. No, no, no. I was not ready. What to do next? I did the only thing I knew how to do—I did what my mother did when my father died. I swallowed every feeling and focused on gratitude. I thought, How fortunate that she did not suffer, and How lucky I am to have had such a great mother. I knew that if I started to cry, I would never stop. So I held back every tear, forced a smile, and kept very busy. It was the only way I knew how to survive. That worked for several years. Then I began to have health challenges, landing in the hospital for an extended stay. At this point, I had no choice. I had to stop. While recovering, I began to write these letters. Little by little, I began to cry. My heart broke wide open and the flood of blocked emotions poured out. I began to understand that grief does move through stages. Anger was the hardest, yet an important phase of my journey. After eight years of writing, I sat down on Mother’s Day 2016 and composed yet another letter. As I signed it, I realized to my surprise that I had just finished the book. That letter ended in a different way. After so many years and tears, I had accepted my mother’s death. I am not sure if we ever truly stop grieving. Sorrow lessens, memories remain. I know that I will always miss my mother. When I see a painting by Monet or a poppy in field, I think of her. After my long journey, I now feel a sense of peace and true gratitude. Above all, there is a new light glowing in the closet of my heart—a beautiful flame of love, connecting me with my mother. Perhaps something in this memoir will resonate in your heart or touch your soul. It is my deepest hope, dear reader, that these letters will bring you, too, a sense of peace and will light a flame in your own heart. Love, Helen