Dearest Sarah,
Yesterday morning as I sat on my bunk crocheting a birthday doll for Will, I heard this plaintive plea from down the hall, "Does anyone have an old Mother's Day card I could have?" A beat of silence, then another voice asked, "Whadyamean—Old?" The whiner bleated, "I have no card to send my momma and if I had one to look at, maybe I could draw up something. A week from today is Mother's Day and Friday is Truman Day (whatever that is) so no mail goes out Thursday. I gotta get on it nnnoooowwwwww!!!" I don't know if she ever found a prototype, but the exchange made me think of the upcoming day set aside for mothers.
Sunday will make 25 Mother's days that I've spent away from my mother and you kids. In general Mother's Day is not a happy day in prison. We gals, who are fortunate enough to have living mothers, get in long lines for the phone just to say, "I love you, Mom—and I miss you."
Most incarcerated women are mothers. We get in the long lines for the phones to call our children. If we're lucky enough to connect, the conversations are laced with love, lonesomeness and heaped with guilt.
I never dreamed that anyone or anything could drag me away from you kids and that I'd miss even one Mother's Day—much less 25—and still counting. You ranged in ages from 16 to 8 when I was sent to prison. Now look at you. Jane will be 41 in August. You will be 39, Sarah. Our Matthew is gone, but he'd be 37. Carrie will be 35 next week, and Morgan will be 33 in June. And between you: Ten gorgeous talented offspring.
You've heard this story all your life, but I love telling it: When Carrie was born on Mother's Day of '75, a wide-eyed intern in the hospital exclaimed, "Wow! You became a Mother on Mother's Day." I hated to burst his bubble, but I came clean, "Not exactly. This is my fourth baby." He blinked, and then asked, "Fourth? Don't you have a television?" I guess he was implying that we needed to watch the entire Johnny Carson show and not get side-tracked, but he couldn't rain on my parade. That Mother's Day was most wonderful with my perfect brown-eyed package safely tucked in the crook of my arm.
(You know I have a birth story for each of you, but I'll only bore you with Carrie's since hers is the Mother's Day story.)
When our sweet life was together and safe, you kids picked me dandelions without stems, and I floated them in jar lids on the kitchen windowsill. You drew Mother's Day cards with hearts, stick figures and peanut butter fingerprints. Frugal Matthew, who never wanted to spend his own money, once bought me a pair of dime store "ruby" post earrings that he adored. I wore them to a PTA meeting, and my lobes swelled up hot like well-fed ticks. He later asked me why I never wore his earrings, so I slathered them with Vaseline and wore them only in his presence.
I've been mulling over a Mother's Day poem for you girls, but I can't seem to get it together. This flood of memories from when you were small floods my eyes. We were cheated! We were cheated out of your dedicated Daddy. And while we were still reeling from his awful death, I was snatched away to prison. We were ALL cheated—and still are—and it never stops!!!!
This is why I can't seem to write a Mother's Day poem for you girls. I'm too sad and too mad. To write something palatable, I need to locate a peaceful place in my head. I'm too sad and too mad to go to the peaceful place. Right now I could curse and shake my first at the heavens and kick and scream and roll around on the tile while foaming at the mouth. A caniption fit, as your grandma calls it. That's what I could have. A caniption fit. (I have no idea how to spell that specific type of fit, although I've heard about it all my life and could perform it if it would help.)
Well, this is not exactly the sweet Mother's Day letter that you expected, now is it? Sorry, but I just go a bit nuts every day wondering how much longer this nightmare will endure. I've given up on the thought of vindication. I don't even care anymore if some people erroneously believe that I'm a cold-blooded killer. I don't care what anyone thinks except for you kids, the rest of the family and friends who have become family. I just want to come back home to exist peacefully and productively as a real mother and granny and daughter.
I want to be able to help you with your children. I want to cheer at all the ball games, proudly attend all the piano recitals, all the swim meets, all the award ceremonies, all the school open houses. I want to chip in on all the chores—from mowing, to painting, to housekeeping, to cooking and dishwashing and everything! (I'm very handy.)
I've missed every graduation, every wedding, every funeral, every holiday get-together, every birthday party, every anniversary celebration, every illness, every speaking engagement—and now I've missed the last 25 Mother's Days. DAMNATION!
Happy Mother's Day, Sarah. You're a wonderful mother, and I'm so proud of you. I feel the same way about your sisters. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, and your children are vivid proof of what great mothers all three of you girls are! God bless.
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