Once upon a time I was part of an ezine called Saucy Chicks. Upon it I had the honor to contribute a few columns. One of them was Sincerely, SM wherein I wrote letters, mostly open letters, and sometimes even mailed. I am bringing it back here. There is no set schedule, save sporadic. If you would like a letter from me, let me know. Until then, enjoy reading in on someone else’s mail!
7/01/22 Dear Mom,
I saw you the other day. We were in a department store, H over in men’s ware and I was behind the Sephora where they had sanctioned a postage stamp square of clothing for women of size. Despite the odds I had just found a lovely blouse in the lightest shade of pink with red swirls across it. It was in my size and it was on clearance, though I did not find it on a clearance rack. Trust me, I was hunting, just as you taught me, for a clearance rack anywhere near or in my size area. But, I found it nonetheless and in your favorite color combination and for under ten dollars! And then I turned to show you and you were there. Just two feet away.
In my head I knew it couldn’t be you, though only after my heart swelled and my excitement grew to a tangible form. My immediate instinct was to celebrate the find with you. Which was funny as we didn’t actually shop together much as adults. Also, we did not live in the same town or even state and even if you did come to visit I doubt we would have been shopping. Yet, we often shared your shopping journeys and how or if they led to sewing adventures. And for some reason, in this moment, my very first instinct with this red hot find in my hot little hands was to show you. I anticipated your smile. I anticipated your almost immediate switch to find something as equally awesome or even grander for yourself.
And then the tears started to tickle in the corner of my eyes. That is usually how it starts, the reminder of your not being here. Logically I know, I always know, but my emotions and instincts seem to always get the better of me. Before the gulp of air that comes up from my stomach and lodges in my throat until I release the tears can rise and hold me completely captive, you turn around. Of course it isn’t you at all, nowhere near close. From the back this woman did have a hairstyle you had once, for a very short time, and her hair was a white gray. Not as beautiful as your white, which was truly pretty, but a nice shade all the same. She asks if I know where the dressing rooms are and I laugh. I had no idea and further did not think to look for any on my way to the back of the store. I am so used to not finding anything to try on. Nevertheless, your no longer doppleganger and I find the fitting rooms, H joins me, we make some decisions and move on.
I bought the blouse. I am going to remove the tag, wear it backwards, and tie it on the side. I can hear you bemoaning how I just cannot dress within the lines. How was it just yesterday that I was a preteen or teen and you would bring me shopping and practically beg me to buy things, so much so the clerks were positively flummoxed. Nothing was ever quite right and I always thought and would always say, “You can make it better.” It was true, you could, you did. Though it was work, especially since we did not speak the same language. You were a pattern follower and I was a draper long before we learned that term and it still doesn’t completely fit. Somehow we got through it and I loved my clothes. You would throw your hands up the next season when all the creations we turned out were suddenly in all the stores.
A few days later as I was cleaning out the chifforobe I had been using to stuff anything and everything I had no place for and I came upon two shawls. One you made for me for Jody’s wedding. It is still gorgeous and unexpected and as Jody pointed out matches my skin tone perfectly. And a variegated lavender shawl you made me for a dress that didn’t work out that I have not ever gotten to wear. Then it hits me. This is the last thing you made for me. Sure, you helped with those pajama bottoms but that doesn’t count, they were from a pattern and mainly a gag. This shawl was part of that completely obstructed way we had of communicating through a project. It was the part of the outfit you added, just for me, just in case.
I took pictures and texted them to Jody. She, as always, had the perfect response. I tucked the shawls away to safety and came out into the living room to find H. She took one look at me and stood, waited for me to speak while somewhat pacing. I was crying while explaining to her about the shawl and she hugged me, and hugged me, until my breathing was steady again. We both commented that this was how it would be when anything cropped up, this is grieving, there is no end, it just lives with us and we honor it when it does, when we can, how we can.
And still, I hope I see you again soon.
Love, your daughter.
Sincerely,
sm
Looking to open or to add more Sincerely, SM letters?
Head on over to The Mail Box, or click the “Dears” below:
Dear Men, Dear Valentine’s Day, Dear Maud with no E, Dear Yellow Sweater, Dear Me between 9/10 to 9/17 2001,