This letter is meant for you, my dear mother. You always inspired me to put pen to paper. As a child, I would share with you my imaginative and vivid dreams over breakfast, and you would urge me, “You need to write these down, Jessica.”
You gifted me a journal when I performed in France at sixteen, and another while I spent a summer abroad. Each time, I started with the intention of filling those pages with remarkable tales, but I often found myself too busy to commit to writing them down. I even began a journal titled “A Year in the Life of a Bride” to present to you on my wedding day—a collection of thoughts and stories from my year as a newlywed. After a few entries, I abandoned it, feeling frustrated and never found the courage to mention it to you. That’s why I cherish this blog; it doesn’t need to be an epic saga or a full journal. It can simply be one thought, one day at a time.
It’s been a month since you left for your final journey, and I miss our daily moments together. However, I take comfort in knowing you are exactly where you need to be. Over the past two years, I’ve witnessed you scale a mountain, and I have climbed alongside you, fully aware that we would never reach the summit. I finally grasp the lesson you have imparted throughout my life: there was never any false hope. We understood that forever was unattainable, but we held on to the hope for more time, and that was enough. Your climb began long before you were born.
Throughout your life, whenever faced with the choice to rest or continue climbing, you always chose to persevere. You fought valiantly against adversity, made sacrifices for your loved ones, and found solace in your many talents and creativity until this dreadful illness took hold. Turn around and admire the view; you’ve ascended so high that it must be breathtaking. Now, my dear mother, it’s time to rest—there are no more choices to be made. I hope you find peace in that.
Yesterday, I prepared the house for my impending trip. I felt your presence in every task. I could sense your wishes for the laundry to be done, the house immaculate for my husband, Daniel, who struggles during our absences. I folded sheets for a guest arriving while I’m away, wanting him to feel at home without me there to guide him. I never would have considered these details before. Perhaps I was too occupied or self-absorbed. Maybe it took becoming a mother myself to appreciate their value or losing my guiding star—the one person who would have gently nagged me about something I might have overlooked. Regardless, there you were, guiding me.
I made banana bread for you, unsure if you would recognize it or even me. I’m so grateful we took the time to share your baking secrets before the tumor robbed us of those moments. It has taken nearly two years for me to perfect the recipe. While I won’t claim it’s the best, it tastes like home—like you. For the rest of my life, I will feel your presence each time I bake it, savoring the taste of home in every bite. The love in how you layered the ingredients truly makes a difference! With Veronica at a friend’s house and little Frankie happily helping stir, I wonder: did I ever assist you in the kitchen? Was I too busy or disinterested? Do I not remember being there with you?
My memories are of waking up to the aroma of fresh banana bread and fighting with my sister over the end piece. You would come in and turn the loaf around, slicing off the other end. Such simple moments, yet they linger in my heart. I can recall nothing of the actual baking process. After cooling, I wrap the loaves in plastic and foil, tucking the ends neatly as you did. I ponder why you wrapped it that way. Was it to keep it fresher? Did you learn it from your grandfather’s bakery? Was it simply for presentation?
I prepared myself for the chance that you might be asleep during my visit or that you wouldn’t recognize me. Thankfully, you woke for brief moments, and I was able to see you, and you saw me. Your nails needed some care, so I treated you to a manicure and pedicure. Growing up, you rarely indulged in such luxuries for yourself, yet you always had beautiful toes. Over the years, you began to see the value in treating yourself to these services, and some of my fondest memories are from our trips to the nail salon—first for special occasions, and later as bonding adventures with your daughters and granddaughters.
I’m grateful to have kept your nails looking lovely during these past two years, knowing this may be your last. The weight of that knowledge is heavy, and I struggle to move forward as life shifts around me while I feel utterly powerless.
Today, you attempted to say, “I love you,” which has become a difficult task for you. Over the past two years, I would wait for you to say it first, knowing that on good days, you could manage it. Some days, I would say it first, and you would echo it back, while other days, even that was a struggle.
Today, I told you not to say it. “I know how you feel, I know you love me.” You looked relieved I had released you from that burden. I felt sad, too, mama. Sad that this illness has been so cruel and has stolen so much time from us. Sad that there’s no more time left. Scared to navigate life without you. I feel your spirit with me, and I will carry that for as long as I am able. I promise to teach Frankie, Veronica, Sydney, and our baby boy how to make Mimi’s Bread. If I am fortunate, it will bring us closer together even when we are apart, just as it brings you rushing back to me.
I hope that Dad can find a moment to read this to you where some of the words might resonate. I know if you could, you would cry. We are both such emotional souls, you and I. I’ve spent my life chasing my dreams, much like you did. What I finally understand is that it’s not about reaching the top, but rather how we navigate the mountain. That, dear mother, is your legacy and the most valuable lesson I have learned from you. You know you are loved, and I hope you realize just how extraordinary you are.