Letters to My Son

I've just written a tearful letter to Bowie. I've been feeling a bit sad all day. Lying on my bed reading a short story collention about motherhood put me over the edge into real tears. And I pulled out paper and pen, sat at the window where he was born, and wrote. I don't know when I'll give these emotional, sporadic letters to Bowie. I just know that I feel this need to be able to share myself and share my journey as his mother with him. I envision him reading these letters, splashed with my tears, as a young man. I hope they convey how fiercely I love him. I hope they convey that I am human and on a journey.

I am just remembering a conversation I had with my mother when I was a teenager. I told her that I wanted to write letters to my children. So that I'd remember who I was before they were born, when they were little, during good times and bad, and so that they could know me, know my intentions and hopes and ideals and struggles before they grew away from me. Perhaps I was telling her that I needed to know her more. That I needed to know what being a mother was like. I wanted to know how SHE felt when I looked out the window at my beautiful, young, long haired mama hanging clothes on the line. I remembering thinking she was so beautiful and that I wanted to be a young longhaired mama too. But as a young woman I was beginning to have a glimmer of understanding that motherhood was much more complex than that.

I finished my letter to Bowie, "You made me a mama- thank you. Perhaps one day you will make another woman a mama. I want you to understand what a gift that is." And I never want to forget what a gift it is.