Post Its

Post-its are a marvelous invention. Romy & Michelle claimed they invented them to impress their high school reunion mates, Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend used one to break up with her. In general, they're just plain practical.

My mom left a post it note, that was her farewell message. It was simple: "Hi. I love you. Mom."

She left it in an ornament box, so I didn't find it till nearly nine months after she died. By then my dad was dating my eventual step-mom. They were watching tv as I decorated the Christmas tree. When I found the note, I snuck off to my bedroom and cried, face down, muting my sobs. I didn't want that moment to be shared by an outsider. After she left, I shared the note with my dad. He cried, that same strong sound echoed again, just like the day mom died. He shared my sense of loss all over again. As an only child, this connection was critical to me.

The note itself was also essential. It meant that she knew she was going to die, or at least that"it" was a possibility.

I know, tragic, odd, dysfunctional. She didn't commit suicide, and yet she left a note - on a post-it. But I'll take it. Many who die from disease are diagnosed and able to say proper goodbyes. For complicated, odd reasons I missed out on the opportunity to say those words, exchange those weighty sentiments before she passed.

I've kept this note in my memory box, moving it most recently to my fridge. I know we parted on good terms, that those things left unsaid were not unknown. Yet it doesn't mean I don't think about her, about it, about so much more.