Dear Mom,

Your oldest granddaughter loves grape-flavored lip balm.

I would never buy grape-flavored anything but the lip balm came in a trial beauty box subscription. The smell always makes me think of Dimetapp.  I remember you making me take it whenever I had a cold, even though I hated the flavor.

I remember you taking care of me when I was sick…

I remember I could never swallow pills (I still have to put them on the back of my tongue), so you would try every method you could come up with if I had to take antibiotics, including covering the pill in margarine and trying to stick it down my throat. I’m pretty sure I thought you were crazy at the time.

I remember you driving two hours when I had a horrible stomach flu my freshman year of college, while my roommate quarantined my half of the dorm room by spraying me down with Lysol.  And I remember you bringing me home from college when I had mono the same year.

I even remember you spraying my throat with Chloraseptic, while I was sitting on the potty, when I was 2 years old and had chicken pox, probably because it was the only time you caught me sitting still long enough to let you do it.

I remember you holding my hand…

I remember slipping on a stepping stone at the botanical gardens, when i was 3, pulling a very pregnant you into the frigid water with me, because you were holding my tiny hand so tightly.

I remember you always being there when I needed you, always putting your needs last.

I remember you teaching me…

I remember watching you and wanting to do everything with you.  I remember you letting me “help” you in the kitchen, the laundry room, the grocery store and the garden.  I remember butchering just about everything in your flowerbed when you let me “prune” plants for the first time; I’m surprised any of your plants survived.

I remember you being my mom, in every sense of the word, not just biologically but completely, with your whole heart.  You taught me early on that I had value and that my skills and opinions had value.

I remember us…

I remember us, in the beginning, when I was a little girl, and you were my whole world.

And now I know, with two daughters of my own, that I was your whole world, too.  I was your stubborn, curious, amazing little person.

And I remember you looking into my eyes and smiling, sometimes, after Alzheimer’s took your ability to speak, like you remembered us, too.

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