Wednesday

Wednesday was always the day Mom's letters arrived. For all the years that we lived in different cities, she wrote to me once a week. I can totally back that claim up by opening the large plastic storage bin in my closet that is stuffed, to the proverbial gills, full of her missives.

She'd write about sports; she loved her Detroit Tigers, and rooted for Detroit teams in other sports; mostly, though, she was about hating rival teams, which is pretty amusing, considering how dainty and refined she was. She hated the Cubs, she hated any University of Michigan team, and she always referred to Toronto's baseball team as "Those nasty Blue Jays."

She'd write about politics; after my dad passed away, she really refined her inner pissed-off liberal. She wrote lots of letters to newspaper editors, too. I'm sure she was probably known as "that lefty" in Grand Haven, which just makes me smile a lot. When I'd go over to visit, I'd see her tuning in something like Rush Limbaugh, and I'd say "Mom! Why do you watch him when he irritates you so much?" and she'd say, "Have to see what the enemy's up to."

Once I started watching General Hospital a few years ago, she'd write her opinions of the latest storylines and characters. She had little use for too much kissy-face in the plot - she was more in it for the secret agent capers and Luke's banter - and had even less use for any of the teenagers on the show. She always bemoaned the arrival of summer, when the teen plotlines would be pushed to the forefront to attract kids who'd be home all day for three months. She didn't try to sugarcoat her thoughts, and she'd say things like "Somebody needs to slap Carly's mouth shut!" She wasn't wrong.

She'd write about how the weather had been, and what my siblings and other relatives were up to. Sometimes she'd include a little reminiscence from her childhood, never anything huge or dramatic, but just little details she remembered, and would just jot down out of nowhere in my letters. I always really dug that a lot. Stuff about cans of soup in the pantry and flood refugees and my grandmother making eggs...just random stuff, kind of a "by the way" moment.

I don't remember exactly when, but at some point she began including pages from a cat calendar that Squirl gave her (and, obviously, continued to give her). She'd always include at least two, and sometimes three. And darn, we all know how much I hate lookin' at cats. Mom adored cats, but hadn't had one of her own since the early '90s, so it was nice that we could still share kitty moments. I think everybody in our family reverts to about five years old in the presence of animals, especially of the feline persuasion. Blame it on Mom.

Last Wednesday, when the mail came, I realized there was no letter from Mom, would never be another letter from Mom, and that's when the concept of losing her finally came home to roost. The hospice nurse told us that the real kick in the chest would come later on, and for me, that was the moment the reality of it socked me as hard as it could swing. No more letters from Mom, something that had been a constant in my life for so many years. Squirl told me that maybe that would be the hardest Wednesday, and that each one would get easier and easier. I know it will, but I'm still dreading mid-week's arrival.

I miss her, we all miss her so much; if you'd known her, you'd miss her, too.