Dear mother and Gabi Bjørn,
My breath stops even at the thought of writing to you both … of seeing your names side by side. Together. I imagine you two dancing among the clouds and watching me stumble through the darkness below.
Days like Mother’s Day are the hardest. Still, I’m grateful. I am grateful that I experienced the security and confidence of a mother’s love and had the privilege of sharing it with my own little girl. I am grateful for the signs you send me, both nuanced and obvious, that confirm my soul’s most sincere belief: You are so very close, even though it is just out of my reach.
As I was preparing to go to college, I imagined having one of those smart Lane hope coffins. I wanted to see the girl and her mother in the brochure, give cheerleading sweaters from the university, maybe porcelain pieces … I never got my Lane hope coffin, so when you died, mother, and a few years after I graduated from college , I hungrily collected any material from you that I could find, to try to put together the track from girlhood to womanhood. Finding a craft … taking a husband … creating a home … becoming a mother …