Dear Mom,

Recently, I stood among your flowers on Lamms Road. The azaleas have peaked and fallen but the Irises are blooming strong. When you were alive, I never noticed your bend towards purple, but I see it now and it is my favorite too. The things you planted in your yard and family live on without you. Well, except for your rose bushes, only the durable climbers survived my brown thumb. 

We remodeled the house at your homeplace. Most of what we are using is rescued or recycled. Having been born in the Depression, I see you rolling your eyes at my infatuation with old barn doors and wash boards. I am confident they don’t carry the same appeal when you used them by necessity rather than displaying them for fun and nostalgia. The place looks good, though. I am doing my best to keep what you and daddy built alive. It is sacred ground.

Please tell Daddy that Thomas has taken over the pastures. He has the gentle way of a seasoned farmer – a man who loves the land and his cattle. Give him a few months and I know that the pastures will be looking bright and green. In case y’all are wondering, the miniature burros are there to keep out the coyotes. Funny how coyotes have become a problem in the span of time since you and Daddy have been gone. New and old, the world marches on.

Riley is home for Mother’s Day. She is mostly grown at 23 and has changed in many ways since you last saw her. She lives in Asheville and reminds me of you with her hazel eyes and Indian brown skin. She is caring and tender with a heart for others. She often texts me pictures of snapdragons, baby chicks, an array of random things that remind her of you and her formative years at Grandma and Pa’s. 

Ryann is graduating from high school in a few short weeks. I can’t believe how fast their childhood has passed. Ryann is a charmer, her bright blue eyes, blonde hair, and friendly way winning over most who meet her. I think of how much you and I missed one another when I went away to college and know that Ryann and I are in for the same experience come August.  

You always thought it was important for us to have a dog and we have two. Winchester and Fergie run wide laps around the farm. Free from fenced-in yards and leashes, they charge forth with reckless abandon, ears back and flapping. I wish I could say they are useful animals, but at our homeplace they reveal their city dogness as they try to muscle their way into the house for water from a clean bowl and a cool rest on the kitchen floor. 

John and I have been married six years now. He knows how to use a chainsaw, drive a tractor, and rip hay string with a jerk of his hand. We stomp through the tall grass of the pasture, comfortable in the quiet of the country. I know that you and Daddy worried about me being alone raising my girls, but I found a good man in John. He is smart and kind, the type of man who keeps me safe, warm, and dry, no matter the storm. We are happy.

I have a song on my computer that Ellen sent me shortly after Aunt Nannie died. The song arrived in my inbox because time and age have advanced us to be the ones who stand around and reminisce about days gone by. We were talking about cousin Stevie playing the guitar at his going away party before he left for the Coast Guard. The rattling news of his death came shortly after he reported for duty. That was almost forty years ago. I thought he played “Rocky Top,” but Ellen remembered later that it was “Country Roads.” She YouTubed that song to me and as I Iistened to John Denver’s voice on my computer, I was transported back to that party, frozen in the moment when our family was young and the dead were alive, before time and circumstances ripped through us tornado like leaving the remnants of what was once a bright and strong fabric. I have that song on my phone now and sing along with the chorus sometimes when I am out for a run … “Country roads, take me home, to a place I belong.”

I have not done a good job holding our family together. The only sibling I really talk with is Jeff. He is sober and living down in Greenwood, SC. He doesn’t live far from where Grandaddy grew up.. He is happy and well, a disciple of sorts, preaching to the lost and wayward. His friends in the recovery community call him Jefe or Jesus. His brown hair is long and curly and many of his teeth are missing. As daddy always said, “He’s a Jeff.” I am proud of him. He could easily be dead.

I think of you most days as the years roll by since we were last together. At your funeral, Preacher Bill said that now that you had passed over to the other side and seen heaven that you wouldn’t come back, even if you had the chance. He told your funeral attendees that you would want stay there, basking in all things holy. Aunt Betty and Miss Margaret “Amened” when he said this. I didn’t tell Preacher Bill or Aunt Betty or Miss Margaret this, but I think they are wrong. You would come back if you could … to hug your grandchildren, coax some rose bushes back into bloom, and sherpa me through life as my guide and confidante. That is what you always did. That was always the way you rolled.

Though time has enabled me to speak and write of you and taught me to grab hold of a peace that passes understanding, I still miss you.

If a Genie gave me three wishes, the first would be for just one more day with you. The other two would involve making French fries a weight loss technique and red wine a sleep aid. So, I will wait for my Genie to arrive on his magic, flying carpet. Until then, I will hold tight to my memories and gratitude to have been blessed with you as my mom, and I will get by with a little help from my friends.