October 21, 2023
Hey all, this is Abby. I debated whether or not to post this, but here I am, typing away. It feels like I should share this, if only to help myself process.
I will start with a simple fact: my mom passed away five years ago. The thing is, I didn’t really start grieving her until yesterday. I know that sounds strange, and maybe it is, but here’s why.
For as long as I can remember, my mother was a whirlwind of silence. She was there — physically present — but always so involved with her own thoughts, her books, her garden. A part of me always felt like I was tiptoeing around the edges of her world, never quite allowed in.
Yesterday, while cleaning out the attic, I stumbled upon an old, dusty box with my mother’s handwriting on it. The box was labeled ‘Memories’. That should have been a red flag for me to brace myself.
Inside, among yellowed letters and faded photographs, was a small music box. The kind that looked more at home in a fairy tale than in the real world. I vaguely remembered it from my childhood, but I’d never seen it opened. It had a peculiar weight about it, as if it contained more than just melody.
Curiosity won over caution, and I opened it. The music box played a tune I hadn’t heard in years. A hauntingly beautiful melody that tugged at the very edges of my memory. And then, tucked beneath where the dancer would twirl, was an old, yellowed sheet of paper.
It was a letter, in my mother’s handwriting, addressed to me.
It started with ‘My dearest Abby,’ and went on to explain things I never knew about her — her dreams, her struggles, and, most importantly, her love for me. The letter was dated two days before she passed, which meant she knew. She knew her time was short, and she needed me to understand her in a way she never allowed when she was alive.
It turns out my mother had lived her life in the shadow of doubts and fears, afraid to let people in, afraid to be vulnerable. Her silence wasn’t indifference; it was her armor.
As I read her words, I felt a shift inside me — like a veil being lifted. My lifelong perception of her had been that she was distant, perhaps even disinterested. But this letter revealed the opposite. She had been deeply invested in my life, quietly watching, silently supporting. Her silence had been her language of love.
I listened to the music box play its melody, a song she had hummed to me when I was very young. I felt tears slip down my cheeks, realizing that this was her way of communicating, of saying all the things she couldn’t bring herself to vocalize.
I sat there for hours, surrounded by memories I’d never known existed. I think the truth revealed by that music box was that my mother had always loved me fiercely, but she didn’t know how to show it any other way than by watching over me from a distance.
I’ve been a bit of a whirlwind myself since then. Anger mixed with understanding, grief tangled with love. But there’s this clarity now — a newfound connection to her memory.
I wanted to share this because maybe some of you also have people in your lives that seem distant. Maybe they’re not. Maybe they just show love differently — it’s quiet, and it’s subtle, but it’s there.
Thank you for reading this far. Maybe you’ll think about the quiet people in your life differently now. I know I will.
Abby