Dear Mimi, Love A

More Wishing. But with Chocolate Red Velvet Cake with Chocolate Brown Butter Frosting

2011-10-25T09:02:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I love to bake. I learned how to bake before I learned how to cook more than ramen noodles or veggie sandwiches. Before I taught myself how to bake, the family joke was that I could mess up scrambled eggs and toast. It's not that you didn't teach me how to cook or bake - I remember helping you make things when I was little. I just wasn't interested, and you never pushed anything on me. But then one day in college, I decided I wanted to bake a cake. (For a boy, of course.) So, 8 and I dusted off the baking pans and made a cake. It was awful. We started over, and ended up with a very ugly but pretty tasty one layer round cake. Before that day, I always thought that I didn't like cake. I discovered that I loved cake - I hated boxed cake and icing from a tub.

Armed with your much loved, well used, and food spattered Betty Crocker cookbook, I started baking. And as much as I enjoy the fruits of my labor, I love the actual baking more. I make many, many things that I never eat. Giving away a cake is almost as good as making one, and certainly more fulfilling than eating one. And less 'filling' in the hip area.
At this point, I couldn't begin to count the number of cakes and cupcakes and pies and cookies and tartlets and frosting and glazes and cobblers and brownies and ganaches I've made.

But I've never made a chocolate cake.

I've make plently of chocolate covered and chocolate filled things. And chocolate frosting is one of my very favorite things to slap on a cake. But I've never actually made a chocolate cake. I think I was afraid I would create some face-meltingly awesome chocolate cake. That I could not share with you.

You could not have chocolate. And you were not always graceful about it. When I baked something to share, I always made a non-chocolate version for you. Several times I hid the chocolate version from you - for your own peace of mind. So how could I make a scrummy chocolate cake with chocolate frosting - and risk discovering something amazing that I could never proudly serve you?

Recently, I needed a moment to myself. I left the boys upstairs, and I cleaned the kitchen. When I was done, I realized I wasn't ready to go back upstairs yet. I hadn't used it in a long time, but I pulled out the trusty Betty Crocker cookbook and decided I was going to bake the first thing I came across that I hadn't made yet. As it turns out, a Devil's Food Cake is the first cake in the good 'ol BCC.

So I made it. And I topped it with a Chocolate Brown Butter frosting. And it was delicious. It was everything I wanted in a chocolate cake. I shared a slice with Husband, and took the rest of the cake to work. The entire cake was gone by 1:00.

To me, there's nothing sweeter than sharing something I made. And like so many other things, I wish I could have shared it with you.

I wish it hadn't taken me so long to make a chocolate cake.

And, in general, I just sort of wish for you. I wish peace and sunshine and chocolate cake and strong coffee and backgammon and things to paint and sunflowers and all the things you love.

Love,

A

Happy Birthday

2011-10-24T17:02:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

Today is your birthday. It goes so without saying, that I don't even know how to say it anymore without sounding like a broken record, but here it is, anyway: I miss you. I wish you were here. I want to celebrate with you, hug you, hear you, rub your fuzzy lamb head. I want to share some Mexican cheese dip and an inappropriately sized margarita with you. But since I cannot do that, I am going to do the next best thing. I am going to eat the traditional Mexican meal with the people you would have invited to your Birthday dinner: Dad, the Little One, my Little One, your two favorite son-in-laws, Miss Jones, TP, The Beautiful One, SuzQ.

I know we will laugh and hug and cry. And because we will cry, and because I needed this reminder today, I will remind them of your words.

If That Was the Last Time You Saw Me......

Melanie Morgan-Dohner

If that was the last time you saw me......

Know that I'm dancing! Know that I'm happy! Know that you will always be in my heart.

Know that I love you - this is easy for me to say, as I am at odds with no one.

Know that I have enjoyed my life - it has been filled with amazing joy and delight.

I've found life to be astonishingly beautiful.

Know that the challenges didn't destroy me and the discouragement never lasted.

Know that gratitude has been my key - gratitude and hope and wonder. I hope you won't miss any of it - any of the wonders that surround you.

Know that the end, here, is saturated with peace - I've been close enough to know that.

I'm alive - I'm in life - you'll see me again. We'll talk again. We'll laugh again.

I have complete assurance about where I'm going - it's a trip I've looked forward to, while enjoying life here.

Dennis and I have come to really enjoy living in the tension of how wonder-filled life here has been - yet, knowing that someday, one day, we'll be making the ultimate transition form here to there! From wonder to wonder.

I've talked with God - I know Him - He is not an idea - the reality of Him is staggering, breath-taking, life-changing. We took a chance - got outside the box of "normal" and never regretted a second of it.

Know that I'm free-range now! Tethered to nothing but love, dancing with Anna Larkin, Donald Morgan, and Jesus.

Love,

Monday, Monday

2011-08-29T13:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I know this is going to sound strange, but I think you dance like Mama Cass. While I always considered you graceful (specifically when compared to my extreme clumsiness), you were not a dancer. This is not to say that you did not dance. You loved to dance - with Dad. And everyone loved to watch the so obviously loving and intimate conversation you two carried on while dancing. And you danced with him everywhere. On trains, down hospital hallways, in the grocery, in the chemo room.

But that's not the dancing of which I'm thinking. I really mean the dancing by yourself dancing. Or, moving to music. You always made me laugh - or perhaps I should say that I always laughed at you - when you danced by yourself. Not in a malicious way. In the 'I am a teenager and you are clearly not hip with the way kids dance, even though I'm not really either' way. I suppose it will be the same, some day, when my son catches me grooving to some 'oldies' from the 1990's. (Especially because that child can daaaannnnce.) You had this clapping, half stomping move that reminded me of an old man slapping his leg along to the hoe-down. But my favorite was this sort of loosey-goosey shuffling and hip swaying. And this morning, I watched Mama Cass do the exact same thing.

For the rest of my Monday, Monday, my head will be filled with visions of you dancing. If I could thank Mama Cass for reminding me of this piece of you, I would.

Love,

A

Our Special Day

2011-08-10T09:03:00.004-04:00

Dear Mimi,

Thirty-one years ago, on the way to the hospital, you were having some doubts. You told Dad to turn the car around -- you were fine, you didn't need to go to the hospital. It was two weeks earlier than you expected to be making this trip. Plus, you didn't like those pale and pasty chubby babies with no hair. I like to imagine that you made the 'yuck' face as you delivered this speech.

The next morning, at 5:55 a.m., I arrived -- long and skinny, with a thick tuft of black hair, and quite ruddy. You told me I was everything you didn't expect a baby to be, to your surprise and delight.

Every August 8th, early in the morning, you would sneak into my room and wake me. When I was older and lived elsewhere, you would call. You always started with the same line, and this year it would have gone like this:

Thirty-one years ago, you and I had a very special day!

Sometimes you told me the story of my birth. Other times you talked about how miraculous it was to feel me growing inside you. The wonder of our intertwined systems, and shared blood, shared food. Every time, you told me how much you loved me, and how much you loved being my mom. And every time, I thanked you for making me, having me, loving me.

I missed you, and your call, on our special day.

Thanks for making me,

A

I'll Never Say Goodbye

2011-08-01T15:20:00.003-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I listened to the same song everyday on my way home from work. Everyday, for a few months. It always made me cry. At first, I thought it was because I identified the song with your fighting spirit. There is a refrain in particular that I think of:

You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a riot
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first to find another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm waiting for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die

You fought the cancer. You cursed the cancer. You radiated the cancer and poisoned the cancer and demanded the cancer leave. You were a little conquerer, trying to take back your body. The times the cancer was on the run, you did victory dances and screamed in jubilation. When the cancer came back, you spit, you stomped, you fought ever harder. If there had been a burial plot waiting for you, you would have danced on it. Defiantly.

One day, after months of my drive-home cry, I did a 'Mimi'. I asked myself the easy question and made myself find the hard answer. Why was I crying? Every day? Of course I miss you, and of course I wanted you to stay. But listening to the same song, every day? Knowing I would cry? Every day?

I realized it was actually a different part of the song that was worming its way through my apple heart:

I never wanna leave
I'll never say goodbye
Forever, whatever
Forever, whatever

For all your fighting, and all your defiance - I'm not sure you were ready to go. You were the most alive person I have ever known. Even when you were fighting for the last bit of life left -- especially when you were fighting. In the very end of the end, when we knew it was the end, you took your time. You baffled the medical world - you outlived every benchmark and expectation. They exhausted their tool-kits because you lived to try every tool they had.

And after so many months, I realized that I have been worried that you spent that last week screaming on the inside that you didn't want to leave, you'd never say goodbye, forever, whatever.

As soon as I admitted that to myself, the tears dried on my face. I can't know what was going through your head that week, and you couldn't tell us. But I do know that you knew, absolutely, that we loved you. I promised your still form that I would never stop loving and protecting The Little One and Dad. I whispered that I knew - in the way that I know things - that we would all be okay. And we've never talked about it, but I'm sure that they told you the same things.

We released you, because you had to go. And I released my fear about your last week, because it also had to go.

But you'll never leave my heart, I'll never say goodbye.

Forever. Whatever.

Love,

A

Things I Learned From You - Good Movies

2011-07-20T19:58:00.002-04:00

Dear Mimi,

You taught me about good movies. We used to check out old movies from the library and have themed marathons. Cary Grant nights and Alfred Hitchcock weekends were regular family events. But my favorite movie education occurred when I was in high school, on days when I stayed home sick. On those days you introduced me to movies like Harold and Maude, Wings of Desire, The Graduate, and all of Woody Allen.

One afternoon, we were flipping channels and I stopped at a movie I didn't recognize. When I asked you what it was, you stared at me in shock. You immediately wrote me a note to excuse me from school the next day and ran to the video store. That next day while I was playing hooky we watched all three Godfather movies. In your mind, cultural education (including movies) was as important as the things I learned in school. You made sure I watched many of the classics, and we watched most of them together. I thought of you and our Godfather Hooky Day this weekend when I watched Gone With the Wind for the first time. I'm not sure why we never watched this movie together - especially as you are named after one of the main characters.

And Dad corrected me - he said you loved The American. I thought you would have hated the way it ended, but this was not the case. He said that you loved the movie because it was so foreign, there was nothing American about it. Which is of course what I loved about the movie. I wish, in a hard-wish kind of way, that I could come over and re-watch this movie with you today. I would so very much love to hear your thoughts, know the parts you like best. And of course, cry together at the end.

I will have to settle for Appreciative Husband, who loves good movies but doesn't cry with me. It's not the same, but nothing is. But, the movies will still be there to watch, and I will think of you every time I find a fabulous film.

After all, tomorrow is another day...

Love,

A

A Season of Thanksgiving - Universal Truth 2.7

2011-07-09T13:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I'm a card-carrying member of the Choose Your 'Tude squad. I repeat the phrase with great consistency to myself and the people around me. ('Choose your 'tude! Choose your 'tude! Choose! Your! 'Tude!) And I think those people would be surprised to know that I don't think of myself as naturally cheery -- I'm quite inclined to melancholy. But even when I was a hormonal teenager, you embraced my moods while reinforcing Universal Truth 2.7.

         Universal Truth 2.7
       You choose
                how you respond to the life
               that happens around and to you.

    This means that you have options in every situation.
                     **ESPECIALLY**
         the ones that seem out of your control.

I remember being that teenage girl, staring at you as if you were quite mad, and thinking, 'What is this nonsense?' But after rolling my eyes (I'm sure I did), and halfheartedly agreeing to 'try it out', I realized that you were quite right. So I choose my attitude, every day. And lately, I've been working on thanks-giving. I want to exercise gratitude and give thanks for the many blessings and wonders in my life and the world in which I live. I want to actively participate and enjoy the richness to be found in this life, and I can't do that unless I see and appreciate and am thankful for everything. Everything? Every-thing, everything?

   Even those stupid ants that keep overrunning my yard?

And that lady at the grocery store who gave me the stink-eye?

     And..........cancer?

Yes, I think I need to choose Thanksgiving for the good, the slightly annoying, and the real-awful-bad. I think that's what you would advise. It is certainly what you practiced. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but let's think about it.

Easy things to be thankful for, in no particular order -
my husband and son
a house I own and can decorate however I like
that pay raise I wasn't expecting
my adorable nail beds
the Little One
Sister Cousin, 8, and Shanz - the ladies who stood by
        me when I married, as they have, always
sushi

But what about those FREAKING ants?

They are just ants, after all - it's not like they said, 'Hey! Look at that A lady. She looks like we could really bug (ha) the poop out of her if we went NUTS in her yard! Yeah! Let's go to HER house!!'
They are a part of creation, following their instincts.
And they are fascinating to watch.
           They only bite when I'm trying to destroy their
           home...I would do the same!

I guess I can accept ants. Give thanks for the wonder of their creation. My plants must be lush and healthy if the ants have chosen my yard as their home - that is certainly something to be thankful for.

Ooh, but the lady! With the stink-eye! Maybe she DID single me out!
............
.............
..........and if she did?.......
(I can hear you asking this.)
    ........so what?

Maybe she's having a bad day, or the sun was in her eyes, or she thinks my purple paisley scarf is garish, or she hates brunettes, or she was trying to remember the GDP of Iceland, or she can't believe someone would let their hair grow so long, or she was doing long division in her head, or the cabbage bin next to her was emitting a foul odor.
Again.....
....so what?
I will choose to be thankful that I have money to buy my groceries, and healthy legs and arms to walk and push my cart, and good eyesight (and glasses) that allow me to see the look on that lady's face. And for the lady - I can be thankful for the lady. She's just a lady, and I can't presume to know what was going through her mind. This lady is a miracle of creation! And whoever she is, and whatever is going through her head, I want to wish and hope the best for her. I want her to be filled with love and peace. I will pray blessings on her while exercising my thanksgiving for the intricacies and wonderment of my existence here. And maybe when I pass by her cart, I'll let her know that it's 12.134 million US dollars. The GDP of Iceland, that is.

But cancer? Really and truly? I think it sounds ridiculous - being thankful for cancer. I'm concerned that if I said that out loud, the villagers would arrive with pitchforks and torches, and run me out of town. Little old ladies on the street would hit me with their purses, and small children would kick my shins.

But -- I am thankful for who I am, and how I have grown, and the things I have learned while you had the cancer.
And I am thankful for all the time we made to spend together that we otherwise might not have prioritized.
I am thankful for the amazing people we met in doctor's offices and chemo rooms, and even the strangers who recognized the cancer on you/us and offered support.
The few friends who remained to stand by me are unfathomably precious to me - I would fight lions while covered in raw meat armed only with a spork for these few. They have done the same for me.
   I now know how strong you really taught me to be, and that it runs deep - much deeper than I suspected.

These are very good things. These are things worth FIGHTING for. And if they are worth fighting lions, they are certainly worthy of my thanksgiving. And not my whiny 'I guess I can' teenage eye-rolling, or any half-hearted, 98%, one pom-pom thanksgiving. No! This is a standing on top of the mountain, with my hands in the air, screaming with everything I have:

THANK YOU!

THANK YOU GOD!

Shout it with me: TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, thank YOU, Mimi. For teaching me Universal Truth 2.7, among so many other life lessons. You gave me all the tools I needed to stand on my own, while remaining within arms reach. After everything, we still stand - though separated - and how can I feel anything other than exuberant thanksgiving for that!?
Love,

A

Please Go

2011-06-28T11:17:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I wanted you to go. I prayed for it, harder than I've ever prayed for anything. I even begged your still form, once.

Even in the moment, I felt guilty for what I was doing. I love you so much, and couldn't bear to think of your bedroom without you in it, let alone an entire plane of existence. And yet, I was hoping you would leave at any minute. As your breathing slowed, we fell into a pattern of stopping whatever we were doing and watching you until you took your next breath. We were simultaneously willing you to take your next breath and hoping fiercely that you wouldn't. At least I was.

The easy thing to say is that we wanted it for your own sake. We didn't want you to suffer anymore, I didn't want you to suffer anymore. Not that you made any of it look like suffering. You fought and you clawed and you railed the heavens, and you napped and watched Oprah and curled up with me in your bed and read books to your grandson. And it wasn't easy for any of us, so I can't imagine how it was for you. And of course, we wanted the cancer to end. And we knew you would have hated the week in the hospital, and we wanted for you to go to peace and love and shining joy and eon-long worship sessions lead by our friend David Jones.

But, the ache-in-my-chest honest truth is that I also wanted it for us. For me. I could feel us fraying at the edges. The tumbler of life with cancer had already polished off our edges, and I felt us wearing down, wearing away. Simultaneously trying to carry the weight of the situation, always striving to lift you up and support you, protecting and helping you above all things, while also living complete lives of our own. The first few years were easy. We were strong and full of that foamy and sweet hope that clings to your face and goes straight to your head. We KNEW things would get better, we knew YOU would get better. We had buckets of our Hope Brew left over to pour over our friends and extra tankards to clink with the strangers we met in the chemo room.

When you started to lose weight, I felt everything grow heavier. You were delighted. I was aghast. There is that strange feeling when everything suddenly seems a little out of place, and things start moving in an unexpected way - you can't tell if you are moving, or if the world is moving around you. I started to feel that way, and I realized the drink in my hand had started to go flat with the knowledge of one too many medical journal articles, and 500 too many family meetings about the place the cancer was this time, and the sobering realization of how long we really had been 'at it'.

I described it to SisterCousin at the time by saying that the gut feeling of 'this sucks but it's going to be okay' was suddenly and irrevocably gone. And as much as I did my own fighting and clawing and railing, it would not come back. People around me, looking at me, might think I lost my hope. In fact, I read it on a few shocked faces when they realized I wasn't praying for you to jump out of the hospital bed. There was still brew in my cup, and it was even still called Hope. It just started to change. Foam doesn't last forever. As much as we would like it to and as much as we pretend that it does, it simply does not. And as much as I would like to think I could have held us up, that we could have held you up forever, I know we could not have.

I found myself staring into my cup, and hoping for whatever was to come next. Because the thing is, I really can't imagine. Even watching it so closely and sharing in it so intimately with you, I can't really imagine or understand what it was like for you to live through everything you did. Not really. I can infer and transfer and fer-fer, but I can't really know.

At the end, your strength was gone. You were starting to fade from your body even before the hospital. And our arms, steadfastly holding on and up, were weary. I began to look forward to setting down my burden, to anticipate my life without you. Because even though this world -- that sometimes seems filled with your absence -- is scary, and littered with pockets of longing for you, it is nonetheless easier. I don't fear or worry for you. I know you have peace, and I have peace about you.

We could not have held on a minute longer than you did. But we didn't let go until then. We were huddled on the floor together for a week knowing we were done. Unable to lift up any longer, but still holding on. All together.

But we didn't lose hope. I didn't lose my hope. Not even for a fraction of an iota of a whisper of one thought. I just reached the grace at the bottom of my cup. And when I did, there was nothing I wanted more for you than to go.

Love,

A

Tea in Heaven

2011-06-25T20:37:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I was reading through your travel journals, something I would not have done before you left. I wish I had, they are such a unique view into our travels, and I would love to talk to you about them.

You recorded your Russia 1997 thoughts into an unassuming blue notebook.

Towards the end of our trip, you wrote this:

At end of mtg. I didn't minister - no strength, and my Russian lady, friend whose feet I'd prayed for, came + found me. I'd prayed w/her on diff. days, but never w/an interpreter, so we'd never exchanged words that were understood, but many hugs that were.
She came, with her bags, and I cleared the chair next to me. We hugged + spoke + prayed. Had our picture taken + I said 'Spa-si-ba'. She said 'Spa-si-ba E das vi dan ya' - my 1st Russian goodbye. We prayed more w/ea. other, took turns speaking words we knew the other couldn't understand, and not being bothered by the lack of translation at all. when there was an announcement about having to empty the auditorium, we hugged with tears, and I told her I felt we'd be very close friends if we could live closeby, and that I could imagine us having tea together in Heaven. As she left, she stopped every 2 steps and looked back at me - I remained turned backwards in my seat so I could see her - at the top of the landing she blew kisses and made hand gestures about her heart being with me.

Thinking about a tea party with you and your Russian lady makes me smile. Thinking about all the lives that you touched, all the hearts that were and are with you, and the way you really and truly cared about every person you met, makes me proud to have come from you. Save a place for me at the tea party.

Love,

A

Mooly, A Definition

2011-06-23T12:10:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

As far as I know, it started with your co-worker and friend Aida. To the three of us, 'Mooly' meant something beyond cool, original, and not necessarily trendy. In fact, mooly-ness probably decreases with trendiness. We, of course, were VERY mooly.

I don't know why the word 'mooly' is...the word 'mooly'. Was it a word Aida had been using and shared with us? I was 7-ish, was it maybe a nonsense word I made up? Was it the product of a tongue twist? Is it possible we were talking about the unruly moon? Maybe we were talking about cow noises and drooling? I guess it doesn't really matter, as the definition seems to apply to the word itself.

And, you are still the mooliest person I know.

Love,

A

Now I'm Going to Have to Explain Mooly

2011-06-22T23:35:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I found a picture frame in your dresser drawer. It is so 'you', yet at the same time, so 'me'. The frame is so much the both of us that I can't remember if I gave it to you, or if it was something you bought and I just happened to love. It was so, totally, mooly. I don't even want to remember whose it was or where it originated as I love our intertwining too much. I absconded with the frame, and it is now on my bookshelf. There is not a picture in it yet, but I'm pretty sure I know who will be in the picture I choose.

Love,

A

Hop on the Potty Train

2011-06-20T12:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

Living with a three year old is hilarious. Remember when my three year old thought his Thomas the Train tent was the 'potty train' he overheard us mention? He was so frustrated that he didn't get to go potty in that train.

Recently, I introduced him to the joys of running around barefoot. Dad had the pleasure of listening to me try to explain the difference between 'bear' and 'bare'. I was not successful, and we now speak of putting our 'bear' feet when we take our shoes off.

Wearing my bear feet and missing you,

A

Notes From You, Volume 1

2011-06-16T14:47:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

You wrote little notes and stuck them all over the house. Tiny reminders of things to do, bets you didn't want to lose track of, friends you made, things and people to pray for and about. And personal pep-talks. Written-word cheerleaders dressed in Sharpie, shouting out encouragement in your own hand. These notes are still posted around your kitchen:

Love,

A

Mashed Potatoes

2011-06-14T11:40:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

You loved mashed potatoes. I mean, you LOVED mashed potatoes. They were the comfort food of all comfort foods in your eyes. You once told me that you wanted to fall asleep with a bite of mashed potatoes in your mouth so that it would be first thing you enjoyed the next morning. A different time, you told me that you wanted to die with a bite of mashed potatoes in your mouth. Something I've noticed about dying - most people (with some obvious exceptions) don't get to pick what they eat immediately before. Unless of course, they decide to go to sleep with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. Because I'm pretty sure that scenario ends with a feast with Jesus at the Banquet Table, and not so much with the hoped for early morning treat.

Love,

To Hell With Fear - 1997

2011-06-06T10:30:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I found a collection of photos you put together to chronicle your first battle with breast cancer. This photo was the first in the packet and was labeled, 'Nov 97 - Before Surgery.'

I recognize that room - it is the living room in our Hopkinsville house. I know all the details: the loveseat you sit on, purchased when we first moved to town; the walls painted in the proper Morgan-Dohner palette; the sweatshirt you are wearing, which you painted to read, 'To Hell With Fear'; the couple with you, a local pastor and his wife, his name is some arrangement of consonants - L.B.? L.T.? W.L.?

I remember every thing in that room, except the look on your face. You are smiling, but your eyes are red, you have been crying. And when I look very closely, I see something unmistakable. Yet, it is as unfamiliar a piece of your landscape to me as if you had grown a mountain next to your nose. You were scared. I can see that as clearly as I can see the other details in the photo. I know it as intimately as I know the items in that room.

I didn't know you were so scared. Or, if I did, I chose to ignore and forget. Or, I was trying so hard to not be scared, I couldn't see it on you. Or, I was too busy learning to be funny to provide levity.

I wish the me that I am now could sit with you on that couch in 1997. I would know how this all ends and could tell you that you have many more years, most of them cancer free. I could tell you that we all make it out of the battle relatively unscathed. I might even tell you about the beautiful grandchildren you would get to play with. Or, I might just snuggle up next to you and finally say, 'It's okay - I'm scared, too.'

Love,

A

Everyone Who Knows You Will Know What a 'Mimi' Dress Looks Like

2011-06-02T10:34:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I am wearing a 'Mimi' dress today. Even though I am sitting at my desk, in my office, having driven here in my car, from the house that I own...I feel like a little girl. The dress fits me. The sleeves are not too long, I do not trip on the bottom -- but I am amazed that this is so. Am I not eight years old? Shouldn't we be in the house in Orange? These mis-matched earring on your ears, and this dress tented around my frame? If I close my eyes, you are teaching me about purple eye shadow and how to properly clean a paintbrush and not putting stock in anyone else's opinion of me.

When my co-workers commented on my lovely dress, I did not tell them it was yours. I couldn't. If I did, wouldn't they see through me? Wouldn't they see the little girl, dressed up in your clothes?

Love,

A

No Te Preocupes

2011-05-27T15:42:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

Do I remember any specific lessons from any of my years of high school or college Spanish? I do not. I do, however, know the skit you co-wrote for your high school Spanish class. You told me about it, probably when I was working on something for one my my own assignments.

You: Dios mio! Me olvido mis cuaderno!
(OMG! I forgot my notebook!)

Your Friend: No te preocupes! Yo tengo papel!
(Don't worry! I have paper!)

These sentences became part of our vocabulary, always repeated with the same giggling theatrics that I imagine the piece was originally performed. The first line, delivered to the other, expressed, 'I don't have this thing that I need.' Or, 'I don't know how to do some thing.' Or, 'I forgot this thing that I need.' Or, 'I have failed at some thing.'

The other person delivered the second line after providing, or helping, or hugging, or teaching, or consoling, as needed.

And more frequently, the second line was said by itself. It always meant, 'I've got your back.'

And, 'That doesn't matter, because I'm here.'

And, 'I'm so glad I could help you.'

And, 'That's what I'm here for.'

And, 'It's you and me, BFF.'

Love,

A

Twilight Zone

2011-05-26T22:35:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

You're travelling through another dimension.

A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of spirit.

You can paint with colors I have never seen, and sing in keys I am unable to hear.

My grandfathers and my dear friends and your dear friends and you, together in a wondrous land whose boundaries are outside even my imagination.

The space you left behind looks the same and smells the same, but I don't recognize this world without you.

The signpost should say 'Twilight Zone'.

Love,

A

One Thumb Down

2011-05-24T22:47:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I know you rely on me for these sorts of things. So, before I forget to tell you, you should not watch The American. You will hate it. If you are looking for something good to watch, I have a few suggestions -- I still categorize every movie by whether or not you will like it.

Love,

A

It Does a Body Good

2011-05-22T23:51:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

During my formative years, I consumed gallons of milk. Gallons and gallons and gallons and gallons. And gallons. I'm not sure how many glasses of milk I drank each day, but I do know that you got a sip of each one.

I don't remember if I ever argued, or asked for an explanation. I do remember that you said, each time, 'Mom gets a sip of your milk.' It was a fact, it was simply so.

If I ever wondered why you didn't get your own glass of milk - I now know the answer. Or, I don't. But I do take a sip out of every glass I pour for my growing child. And I say, each time, 'Mom gets a sip of your milk.'

Love,

A

Perfect Moments

2011-05-21T13:36:00.002-04:00

Dear Mimi,

We shared a perfect moment once. I was in labor, and you were by my side -- with my Amazing Husband and the Little One. In the moment, you had an overwhelming feeling that it was *perfect*. Afterwards you wondered what had made this moment so perfect.

I think it was perfect because all the things that define 'us' and our relationships were stripped away. We were four people joined together, completely free of pretense and baggage and dynamics. The room was chaotic, but I was only aware of the Little One urging me on. Amazing Husband's gentle assurances. And your voice in my ear, your constant stream of prayer. Everything outside the circle of us ceased. Our togetherness was a bright and sparkling thing, overpowering the idea of the room and the hospital and the world. My spirit and your spirit and her spirit and his spirit singing a song unknown and unheard outside our hearts.

I imagine it was a bit like where you are now.

Love,

A

One Of Us

2011-05-20T23:31:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

When we needed milk, or a ride for The Little One, or something taken somewhere...we would say, 'One of us should go...' We said it so frequently, it turned into a name, 'One-of-us should go.' I was the de facto One-of-us until the Little One was driving. And I still stand up automatically if someone mentions a task for One-of-us.

All I know is that All Of Us would really like you here with us today.

Love,

A

All Day Long I'd Biddy Biddy Bum

2011-05-19T23:26:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I'm watching Glee right now, and this morning I was listening to the original Hair soundtrack in the car. Yesterday I spent my lunch break watching YouTube clips of 'If I Were a Rich Man', 'Coffee Break', 'Marion the Librarian'. You and I made a list, in purple Sharpie, of musicals we wanted to re-watch together. The list is still on the fridge, but we only got around to watching and marking off one. I'm sure we watched hours and hours of television together after making the list -- I'm not sure why we didn't watch more musicals. We totally should have watched more musicals.

Love,

A

Every Beautiful Thing

2011-05-17T13:00:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

You once gave me a pretty to hang on my wall. On it were the words, 'Distance does not matter. I'll find you whenever the earth dances beneath my feet and the wind sweeps beauty across my soul.' When I didn't hang it immediately, you were upset with me. You said, 'A, this is serious. I mean this, and I want you to always know it. When I'm not here for whatever reason, you need to remember that distance does not matter. I'll be there in every beautiful thing. I'll be the wind sweeping over you.'

I'm sorry I didn't hang it sooner -- I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. And, I do feel you in every beautiful thing. I always have.

Love,

A

Perceptual Vigilance, Baader-Meinhof, Synchronicity

2011-05-16T20:14:00.001-04:00

Dear Mimi,

When you were first diagnosed, it seemed that every new movie was about someone struggling with or dying from cancer. Do you remember how annoyed we all were? We couldn't escape, even to the movies! I was thinking about that the other day, and the 'once you learn something, you see it everywhere' thing -- so I looked it up. I found this article, which is as damn intereting as the website asserts: http://www.damninteresting.com/the-baader-meinhof-phenomenon.

This is just the sort of thing about which we would have had a cracking good conversation.

Love,

A