Five Years Without You: A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mother,

It was five years ago today that I held your hand for the last time. Five years ago today I kissed your face for the last time.

People say time flies. Now that I’m in my 50s, I catch myself saying it too. But not in this case.

It hasn’t felt like just five years since you’ve been gone. It has been 260 weeks. It has been 1,825 days without seeing your face or your smile.

I’ve reached the point where I can go a couple of hours where I might forget about you. But not a single full day has passed without you crossing my mind. Not once.

The Cemetery

I’m sorry I don’t visit you at the cemetery as much anymore. I promise, now that winter is over, I’ll replace the old flowers with those purple dahlias you loved so much.

But the truth is—it’s harder now.

That first year, I spent hours every single day at the cemetery. I could almost feel you there. Your warmth. Your presence. It was comforting. After not being allowed to see you at the nursing home during COVID, it gave me comfort just to be close to you, physically, again. Only six feet of dirt separated us here.

But lately, when I go, it’s different.

Now I just feel the void. I feel the emptiness.

Part of it is my own mind. I picture things I don't want to—what your body might look like now. I try to stop it, but I am powerless.

So I try to apply what I’ve learned in my years of grief therapy. 

I try redirecting my thoughts.

I focus on your everlasting spirit, not your decaying body. I picture you reunited with your parents, with all your siblings–free from pain and struggle. Just joined together in eternal bliss.

That's what comforts me and gets me through my days.

Your Must Have Felt So Alone

There were many things I loved about you, but your selflessness and your love of family stood above everything else.

And only recently have I started to understand how selfless you were and how much you sacrificed. Your whole life was a sacrifice–for your husband, for your kids.

You came to the United States in 1967, not knowing the language or the customs. For me growing up, it felt like we were a big family. I had you and dad, my brother, three sets of uncles and aunts, and a bunch of cousins.

We had so many good times. You always seemed happy.

I remember going to the beach with everyone, racing through the empty parking lot at 7 a.m. to claim our spot in the far corner near the dunes and trees. We set up camp there for the day and treated it like our base–in between trips to the beach.

Holidays were festive enough. Nothing seemed out of the norm. You always seemed to be the center of attention. People loved your laugh. That made people try extra hard to make you laugh.

But I missed something.

Those people were always my family.

They weren’t truly yours.

Your family—your blood—was somewhere else.

Your real family—your parents, your siblings—were far away. Half in Portugal, in that small village on a hill. The others in Toronto.

You hated flying. I only remember visiting Portugal twice. The last time was in 1989. 

In those early years, every summer we would take the eight-hour road trip to Toronto. 

You'd get to spend time with your brothers and sisters. 

And I got time to spend with my cousins from your side of the family. I feel so much more connected to them. Because they are your blood. We are one in the same.

But those moments were short lived. Those rare occasions were the only times you got to  hug your parents and your brothers and sisters.

It never computed in my brain.

I completely missed the constant longing you must have always felt.

When You Lost Your Mother 

When your mother died around 1993, it hit you hard. I had never seen this side of you. I was in college and hadn't dealt with loss yet. 

I didn't understand what you were feeling.

My logical thinking, insensitive brain was saying, "My mother hardly ever got to see her mother. Why is she reacting like this? Nothing is changing."

But I didn't know anything about grief. My knowledge on everything was limited to textbooks.

I didn't understand the bond between a mother and child like I do now. Maybe I didn't understand what true love meant.

I'd see you  peeling potatoes, and–out of nowhere– you’d start sobbing.

You were always so strong. I wasn't used to seeing this vulnerability in you. I had always viewed you as my mother, not as someone else's child.

No Onions This Time

In 1980, I thought I caught you crying. My brother had just gotten married. I figured you were having a case of "empty nest" syndrome.

I put my hand on your shoulder and said, “Mom, don’t cry. He’s not far away. He’ll visit.”

You looked up at me, almost smiling, and said, “I’m not crying because of that. It’s the onions.”

It was as if you were upset that I would think you would cry over something like that.

But there were no onions when you cried over your mother.

Death changes everything.

There’s a finality to it.

Even though there was an ocean between you, and you hadn't seen or spoken to your mother in years, you knew she was still there. 

There was still that chance you could see her again.

But when she died, that possibility disappeared.

And there was no one that understood. You had to handle that grief alone. 

Our Special Bond

It is true we get wiser with age. Or, at least, more aware.

In recent years, I began to understand the unique bond you felt for me.

I started to see what I represented to you.

I look like your family. I have their same personality traits, their sense of humor, their caring for others.

And I started to see that I wasn’t just your son—I was the only thing that reminded you of where you came from.

My brother didn't have that same power over you. Of course you loved him, but he was 100% dad. He looked like him, acted like him.

The Final Goodbye

That’s why I take such pride in being the one who was with you when you passed.

You passed shortly after midnight.

Dad and my brother had been there earlier in the afternoon, The doctors said you might have a few more days, so they figured they could just come back the next day.

I didn’t care.

If you only had days left, I was going to spend every second of them with you. I was going to take full advantage of the visitation exception the nursing home was giving me.

While I regret not being allowed to visit you more during that final year, I’m grateful for that night.

I was the last voice you heard.

The last face you saw.

Where Am I Today?

I know you might be disappointed in me for not moving on in the five years since you passed . Then again, I know I could never disappoint you. You loved me unconditionally.

I have taken good care of dad. I know you would have wanted that. Sometimes I have to grit my teeth at some of the insensitive, cruel things he says, but I do my best to take care of him–for you.

And Erin has been an angel taking care of me. I know you always worried about me and what would happen to me if you were no longer here. 

But I saw a burden get taken off your shoulders when Erin entered our lives. I think you saw a lot of yourself in her–your selflessness, your caring, your work ethic, your unconditional love.

You began to believe I would be okay if you left me with her And I know that made it easier for you to go.

That doesn't mean it is easier for me. 

You're not here, but I still catch glimpses of you everywhere.

I see your eyes every time I look in the mirror. I feel your spirit in me every time I do a kind gesture. I feel you in the room when I chat with my cousins in Canada.

You taught me lessons right up to that final night we spent together. You continue to inspire me now. This website is a testament to that.

You continue to make me a better person.

My grief is always evolving, but I never want to let go of that grief. Because it is in that grief that I feel closest to you. It is in that grief that you live on inside of me.

Love always,

Your little Tony