This is a tribute to you, my dear mom. Throughout my life, you have always urged me to put pen to paper. As a child, I would share the wildest dreams over breakfast, and you’d encourage me, saying, “You need to write these down, Lisa.”
You gifted me a journal when I performed in France at 16, and another when I spent my summer overseas. Each time, I would begin with the excitement of filling it with remarkable stories, yet I struggled to find the time to commit those tales to paper. I even attempted to keep a “year in the life of a bride” journal for my wedding day, planning to share my thoughts and experiences. But after a few entries, I set it aside, too frustrated to mention it to you. That’s why I cherish this blog; it allows me to share one thought, one day at a time, without the pressure of writing a grand novel.
It’s been a month since you left to find peace, and I miss our daily moments together. Yet, I understand you are where you need to be now. For the past two years, I’ve watched you climb a daunting mountain, and I’ve walked alongside you, both of us aware that reaching the summit was never in the cards. The lesson you’ve taught me is profound: there’s no false hope here. We both knew forever wasn’t in our future, but the hope for more time was all we needed. You’ve been navigating this mountain even before you were born.
Whenever faced with the decision to rest or continue climbing, you’ve always chosen the latter. You’ve fought valiantly throughout your life, faced challenges head-on, sacrificed for those you love, and found solace in your numerous talents. This relentless disease may have worn you down, but I hope you can take a moment to appreciate the view from your current vantage point. You’ve ascended to great heights, and it must be breathtaking. Now, my dear mother, it’s time for you to rest.
Yesterday, as I prepared the house for my upcoming trip, I felt your presence in every task. I wanted the laundry done and the house immaculate for my partner, Matt, who struggles when I’m away. I folded sheets for a guest arriving while I’m gone, wanting them to feel at home without me there to guide them. It’s something I may not have considered before; perhaps I was too self-absorbed, or it took becoming a mother myself to recognize its importance. Or maybe it was losing my guiding light, the one person who would have gently reminded me of these things. Regardless, you were there with me.
I made banana bread for you, unsure if you would enjoy it, recognize it, or even remember me. I’m grateful we spent time together teaching me your baking secrets before the illness took them away from us. It took nearly two years to perfect the recipe. I’m not claiming it’s the best, but it carries the warmth of home and of you. Each time I bake it, I’ll feel your essence, as the love you poured into each layer of ingredients truly makes a difference. My kids, Bella and Jason, helped me stir the mixture, and I wonder if I ever participated in making it with you. Was I too preoccupied? Did I not care to be in the kitchen?
My memories are filled with waking up to the aroma of freshly baked banana bread and playfully arguing with my sister over the end piece. I remember you slicing the loaf, turning it around, and cutting the other end off. Such simple moments hold profound significance. After cooling, I wrap the loaves in plastic and foil, folding them neatly just as you did. I often wonder why you did it that way; perhaps it keeps them fresher. Did you learn it from your father’s bakery? Was it trial and error? Or simply for presentation?
I prepared myself for the possibility that you might be asleep or not recognize me during my visit. Thankfully, you woke up for a few moments. Your nails needed some care, so I pampered you with a little mani/pedi. You never used to indulge in such luxuries for yourself, yet you always had beautiful hands and feet. Over the years, you learned to appreciate these small pleasures, and some of my fondest memories with you are from our trips to the nail salon. I’m grateful to have helped keep your nails lovely, even if this may be our last.
Today, as you tried to express your love, I could see the struggle in your eyes. For the past two years, we’ve had our own test of love. Each morning, I’d wait for you to say “I love you” first, knowing that if you could, it meant you were having a good day. Some days, I had to say it first, and you would echo it back, while other days were just too hard.
Today, I told you not to say it. “I already know how you feel; I know you love me.” You seemed relieved by my words, but sadness lingered in the air. I’m sad too, mom. Sad that this cruel disease has taken so much from us and left me scared of being without you. I feel your presence, and I will carry it with me for as long as I can. I will teach Bella and Jason how to make your banana bread, and if I’m fortunate, it will bring us closer together when we’re apart, just as it does now.
I hope there’s a moment when Dad can read this to you, where my words might reach you. I know you would shed tears if you could. Both of us are such emotional beings, and I’ve spent my life chasing my dreams, just as you did. What I’ve come to realize is that it’s not about reaching the summit but how you navigate the climb. That, dear mother, is your legacy and the most significant lesson you’ve imparted to me. You know you are loved, and I hope you understand just how incredibly special you are.