It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.