The Remains of The Holidays

Pink dogwood, one of Valerie’s favorite spring pleasures, blooming in our neighborhood on the first Mother’s Day since her death. (Photo is my own.)

Monday, 9 May 2022

Dear Valerie,

I tried to write to you yesterday, on Mother’s Day, but I just couldn’t seem to connect any dots between my thoughts and emotions and the empty pages. It was as if the flood of remembrance was blocking the flow of words.

So I’m trying again today. This will probably end up as a melting pot of memories, not necessarily in chronological order, but just as things come to me; I hope it’s not too confusing, but it’s how my mind seems to be working at the moment. I know you already know these stories, but I can’t help going over them in my mind now — memories of you going back even to before you were born. I nearly lost you halfway through my pregnancy, and was put on strict bed rest for the final four months. That particular period was not my favorite, to be honest, but it made the day of your birth all the better.

The 24th of February, 1983, was unseasonably warm and sunny for Dayton, Ohio, as was the 26th. But the 25th, the day you were born, was much colder. And when I was being wheeled from the labor room to the delivery room (yes, they still did that in those days), I was able to see out of some windows in that long hallway, and suddenly it was snowing — big, beautiful snowflakes that made that moment, that whole day, even more magical. Because of this, your father and I always called…