To my mom, February 14

Saturday, February 14, 1981

          Happy Valentine's Day!! Whether you turn out to be a boy or a girl I think you'll make a fine athlete … for all the activity that's been going on inside of me.

          Today has kind of capped a long week for me, I've been sick since Tuesday with a bad cold, and the weather's been pretty bad, too. I didn't get much done so I hope to get going on the projects for your room this next week. I pray for your health, strength & happiness in coming into this world … there are many who anxiously await your arrival. I love you, baby.

Saturday, February 14, 2026

          Happy Valentine's Day!! That one in '81 was your last without me, and this one is my first without you. Strange symmetry. Fine athlete, eh? Maybe only in my head. More than the asthma and comparative frailty to other more muscular boys, it may have been my lack of dedication to any athletic discipline that kept me from becoming a fine athlete. A trait (flaw?) we invariably shared.

          We were pretty sick in December with bad colds/flus, and with the weather turning wet again for a stretch we're doing our level best to stay healthy. I sympathize with the not-getting-much-done aspect of long lingering projects. I'm learning what to hold on to and what to let go, because there's simply too much to manage these days. I pray for your soul, peace & shared memory in leaving this world … there are more than a few who still mourn your departure. I love you, Mom.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, February 5

Thursday, February 5, 1981

          The days seem so long and dreary—and of course the cold, gloomy weather doesn't make it any better. I wish you were here right now, at least I'd have you to do things for—but, I have to be patient … good things take time…

Thursday, February 5, 2026

          Long and dreary. Or fleeting and aimless? I'm not sure which of the two I'm experiencing more. And we both know it's not entirely true: how we perceive things and the way they really are. I wish we were better at discerning between the two, then maybe we'd move through life as God intends: with more grace and understanding.
          Other than that, I'm almost at a loss to respond to your second sentence there … I know having you here right now would not make things better, as I've plenty to do already. I believe you knew that, too, at the end, and that's why you were resigned to the end rather than prolong an undesirable and unpleasant existence. We have to be patient, too, sometimes. But we also need to know when to act. It's a scary place to be caught between stillness and action and being unable to commit. That's ultimately the lesson I pray I take from your example. 

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, February 1

Sunday, February 1, 1981

          I will begin work on the curtains for your room soon, don't have a whole lot of time left, ya know! My! but you've been active today, I've got this awful ache in my right side. Oh well, a little pain for a lot of joy—I guess I can endure.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

          And endure you did. But only so much as was reasonable in the end. Ten or twenty more years of life in that state would have hardly been a life at all. That awful ache in your side born of a rolled ankle, imbalance issues, what your doctors termed "spinal stenosis," and ultimately your failing psyche made it hard to stay active.

          My God! Ya know, it wasn't until the final month that we realized how little time you had left. And as the curtain closes on that stage of our lives, we're all—me, Yume, Ewan, Paige, and not least of all Dad—now working on the next stage. A stage we explore now without you.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.