Sunday, 28 June 2015
Dear Dad and Mom,
I'm sorry that I didn't hug you more, hold you more, and weep with you more when you lost your own parents. I'm sorry that I didn't realize that just because you were a grown up, and my rock and security, that you were vulnerable and sorrowful. I'm sorry that I made you be strong for me as well as for you, because now I understand for the first time that you weren't indifferent or emotionless about it. They were your parents. You loved them. You miss them still. I would like to go back in time and squeeze you just a little harder, and acknowledge the difficulty of that transition for you because I don't remember saying anything at all, let alone anything appropriate to you at the time.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry to see you losing your vitality. You've always been a support to me, and it is hard to have that strength ebb. I'm sorry to see Dad so weakened that he can't get out of bed, can't eat solid food. Can't keep the thread or finish a sentence. I'm sorry that conversations with Mom are just a loop of shallow thoughts, repeated over and over again in the span of a minute or two. I'm sorry that you can't take care of yourselves or each other, and so grateful for my siblings that still live close enough that they can help you in the way that you once helped all of us.
I'm sorry that I cried at the end of my mission, because I wanted to stay in Japan more than I wanted to come home. That's not exactly how it was; the emotions were overwhelming, you see. Japan had become my new home, and the missionaries and the Japanese people members of a new, extended family. I was so attached, so in love, that I couldn't wrap my mind around an end to that part of my life; but of course I wanted to come home, to see family, to be with you again. It had been more than a year! Of course I was excited to see you again—and Mom, I never meant to make you feel otherwise.
I'm sorry for the heartache I caused you when I was a teenager. I understand all too well now how you must have hurt when I hurt, cried when I cried, ached when I was mean or disrespectful to you, and rejoiced when I succeeded. I recognize now all that you set aside for me, all that you sacrificed, all the times that you did that I wanted to do that was in no way fun or fulfilling for you. I recognize how many times Mom got out of her bed in the middle of the night to come and rescue a huge carload of my friends from one of our adventures. I recognize how you always kept me safe without being overbearing.
I'm sorry that you won't be able to see my children grow up and marry, or see me become a grandmother. I know you want that experience for me, as I want it for my own children. I'm sorry that Dad won't be at any of their weddings, because I always imagined he'd keep powering on pretty much forever, even if it was only in a slow shuffle.
I miss the places we always visited, even though I know they'd be so different if I went without you. Dad, Lake Powell is truly like a second home to me, even though I haven't been there for 20 years. It was such a part of my life, and you were such a part of Lake Powell—long hikes, swim breaks, the perfect beach to camp on for the night, teaching me how to ski and then towing me everywhere, anytime. Putting up with my whims when all I wanted to do was get tan and not to actually see the sites or do the fun things. I wish so much I could pass that on to my own children, share it with them as you shared it with me. I sorrow that they will never know our special place, and never know you in it.
I am glad for the gentle, constant presence Mom always was at home, and grateful to have been able to see her mothering and her love extend to my married brothers and sisters and their children. She became a grandmother when she was younger than I am now, and she killed it. By the time my own children came along she was older, more worn out; and then she started forgetting. But I remember. I remember the love, and I remember that home didn't feel like home unless Mom was there. I remember my nieces and nephews were as sure of her love as they were of their own parents'.
And now, at the end, I find it very hard to part with you. I've seen you young, hale, and hearty; I've seen you gentling, and aging. I've seen you forgetful and waning. Is there ever a good time for a child to lose their parent, even if the child is grown and the parent has lived a long, full life? It has been difficult watching Mom's mind leave, piece by piece; just as difficult to watch Dad's body decline so quickly that we don't know if we have minutes or weeks. I don't know how much time I have left with my father, nor for how much longer my mother will remember me. But I love you both, for everything you are to me and everything you have made me. I love you both.
Love, Alyson
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