{Five. Variations on a compelling theme.}

Dear Mom,

One year and one day ago, I wrote you a birthday letter. I titled it: I Love You to Pieces. I talked about how I inherited this phrase from you, how I now say it to my girls all the time. And I do. I also talked about Toddler’s first parent-teacher conference and about how sitting there, across from her first team of teachers, I realized something important: that you taught me to write. You know how much writing means to me, how much it has become part of who I am.

And so, a year later, I see this all more clearly. That you have given me something, a gift, (so many somethings, so many gifts) I cannot outgrow or tire of or return. Among these gifts: love, perspective, humor, resilience, ferocity. Yesterday morning, on your birthday morning, we attended Toddler’s second parent-teacher conference. And sitting there, in those tiny wooden chairs, a simple thought struck me: A year has passed. Another year.

And in that year, a lot has happened and a lot has stayed the same. A lot has happened. You took me to lunch on the day my first novel was published. You sat up front at the bookstore when I read from its pages. We traveled to Florida for a girls’ trip, a divine cluster of days soaked with wine, wildness, and wisdom. I watched as you packed your bags and took off on your own European adventure this summer and I watched as you returned full of good smiles and good stories.

A lot has stayed the same. This city is this city, cradling us all through our moments, our seasons. Our traditions hold fast – holidays, fishing trips, parties, family time. And, most importantly, we miss him. Still. Always. I know there is a hole, far bigger for you, and maybe especially on big days. I know it’s not easy.

Yesterday morning, in that rainbow classroom, I sat there. Across from a trio of wonderful teachers. They told me so many things about my girl. About the things she has learned. The things she can do. And I smiled. And I nodded. And I believed. There were tears there. Waiting to spring.

At the time, I couldn’t quite tell why I felt so emotional. But now I have a hunch. I felt it, that enigmatic something. That keen sense that time is passing, that girls are growing, that evolution is underway. That things are happening as they should. I felt empowered in those morning moments as I sat there listening to good things about my little girl. I felt a surge of triumph. The doubts evaporated. All melancholy abated. I felt that I am doing something right, that we are.

I thought: There is a little girl in this world who is learning and doing and smiling her way through her days. And I am the mother of this girl.

Mom, there is another girl, not as little, who is also learning and doing and smiling her way through her days. There are five of us, actually. Each is distinct, vitally different, but a variation on a compelling theme. We are spread across two decades and two states. We are five creatures, imperfect beings, who know how to live and know how to love.

Mom? You are the theme. You are the mother of these girls. Us.

I know that being our mother is not always simple. I know, and continue to learn, that parenthood is the trickiest trade in the world. I know that we often cause you as much angst as we do joy. But we love you. More than you know. More than we express.

And so. Here I am one year later and one day late. Thinking of time. Thinking of gifts.

What to give someone who has a life full of family and friends, a world stuffed with so many things, good things? What to offer someone made of beauty and brains and benevolence? What to wrap up in pretty papers and regal ribbons?

First, a violet scarf with tiny flowers. One picked by a purple-loving three-year-old for her beloved Moo-Moo. Second, a soft sweatshirt, heather gray and impossibly cozy, picked by a comfort-loving thirty-two-year old for her beloved Mom. Oh, don’t forget the stuffed puppy in the Santa hat!

But what else?

How about words? Aren’t words sometimes the best gifts of all? I think so.

These are my words. They wander and wind and wither in spots, but they are mine. And I mean them. And they are for you.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I love you to pieces. This year. Every year.

Love,

Aidan