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.

To my mom, January 29

Thursday, January 29, 1981

          You are very special you know that!?? God has created another of His many miracles in creating you—you are so loved … just wanted you to know. :D

Thursday, January 29, 2026

          It's a special thing you did to write all this to your then unborn baby. God created us to share opportunities and experiences with each other. I don't know if we shared all the ones that we could have if things had been different, but I feel grateful and blessed for the ones we did share.

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

To my mom, January 26

Monday, January 26, 1981

          Well, things keep trickling in…. Today we got a box in the mail from my mother chock-full of nice little baby things I’m sure you’ll enjoy – oh! By the way, we found your crib! I just can’t wait to start dressing up your room—making it all nice and bright—a happy place for you to grow. Thinking about you really puts the sunshine in my life … I love you.

Monday, January 26, 2026

          Well, things keep progressing as you and Dad planned. We should be making a decision soon on an assisted living facility nearby for him to take residence in, chock-full of nice old people and planned meals and smaller, quieter quarters. I'm sure Dad "just can't wait" to start dressing up his new place—filling it with what remains from 740 Linda Vista—a fine little abode for him to grow old in alongside your memory. Thinking about you evokes a mood that matches the cloudy, foggy days this time of year somewhat—and then the sun burns it all away. You always loved the sun. And we love you.

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

To my mom, January 19

Monday, January 19, 1981

          Hi baby! Today I saw the doctor and I’m pleased to say that I have now been carrying you for 6 ½ months. You’re moving around a lot, more and more each day—it makes me happy to know that you are so active, sometimes I just can’t help but laugh when I feel your little fluttering kicks.

Monday, January 19, 2026

          Hi Mom! It's been 45 years since you put those words to paper. I'm so grateful I got to read it to you in its entirety before the end. I had never read it before, so it was an exciting discovery. Paired with what became, it may seem strange to have experienced some level of joy amid the sorrow. Very fitting though given you wrote them to me as I was coming into the world, and I read them to you as you were leaving.

          I dedicate these entries to respond in kind to your loving messages so as to correspond with the same days you did them throughout the year. May they be a forever monument to the kind of mother you were. I love you and miss you.

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

In the News: "Foolishness is dangerous."