Not Just Yet

Ellen rarely gives me advice.  Possibly because she is younger; probably because she is the family diplomat.  However, this week she did, and I am undecided as to whether I should heed her words.  When she phoned, she asked,

“Do you still have the letters?”

I replied, “Of course, I do.”

“Anne, it’s time to get rid of them.  I have shredded mine.  You should do the same.”

Sounds easy, doesn’t it.  Tear up some old letters.  Why not, but I don’t know if I can.  Not yet, not yet.  And I know I should.  My sister is right.

The letters are voluminous.  They began the year I married and left New York.  I received at least one and sometimes two weekly for the remaining years Mom was alive.  I have piles of them all tied with poppy red ribbon, although the paper is fragile now and the poppies have long since faded.  They were such a routine in my life I never thought it unusual nor did either of my sisters who also received them.  Even though we each phoned our Mother daily, the real communication was always through the mail. 

The letters weren’t always welcome, because they weren’t always warm or fuzzy. Indeed they were brutally honest telling us exactly what she thought.  Sometimes we were given approval, possibly about an outfit we had worn, or a new hairdo.  Other times, we were told rather bluntly that we had made an error in judgment.

Many of them, however, told us about her journey throughout the years after our Dad died.  She always expressed the sadness of days and nights without him.  Something I probably didn’t quite comprehend until seven years ago.  I wish now I had been more understanding, perhaps more sympathetic.

She avoided any discussions of depth on the telephone.  Her true emotions only appear on the fragile pages of the letters.  She speaks constantly of her joy in her family, even when we were not doing quite what was expected of “Her Girls.”  She often exploded in anger about situations that arose; still the bloodline of the narrative always returns to faith in God, hope to serve Him, and joy in those she loved.

There is a refrain throughout all of them telling me not to worry about situations beyond my control, assuring me all would be well in the end.  I have never read either of my sisters’ letters.  I presume they are similar.  There were never any carbon copies.  We each received individual, handwritten, four page communications on a weekly basis.  During periods when sibling issues caused communication disruptions, the letters kept us advised of each other’s lives, problems and achievements.

I know Ellen is right.  The letters are extraordinarily personal.  Her opinions were brutally honest. If you didn’t read them with love, you could find them insensitive.  And perhaps she was.  But she was a Mother from the time she was 29 until her death at 86 and always felt it was not only her right, but obligation to give us direction.  She was a believer in tough love, and I know the three of us would agree, we wouldn’t have wanted her to be anything else.We said our goodbyes 26 years ago, but the letters have kept her in my life longer.  They have been reread often, and I really don’t want to let them go.  Not just yet.  Maybe when spring arrives.