February 14, 1999
Dear Mom,
It's four fifteen in the morning here. I've been sneaking around the house for the last hour, hiding your stuff from Dad. He has boxes of it in every closet, but I'm afraid what used to be on the mantle that is now in a box will find its way to the garbage. And I can't let him throw away these little pieces of you, Mom. Seeing them is like a knife in my stomach, but I have to save them. I can't lose any more of you than I've already lost - your touch, your scent, the sound of your voice, your love. I know they're just inanimate objects, but I feel like they have power, like they show that you were once grounded in this world, that you once belonged, that you once even existed. I can't stand the thought of you fading away.
Soon I'll have to make the trip up to the cabin—much easier now that I'm back to living in New York—but school's in full swing right now and I can't slip away for the day or two I'll need. Plus Lanie would never let me go alone that long. She sees how miserable I am, and I think she thinks I'll try to drown myself in the lake or something. Or she might try to come with me, which would be worse. I'm enough of a mess on a campus where you've never stepped foot; I don't need to show her what actively grieving daughter looks like. It's not pretty.
Tomorrow I'm going to go through your book collection. Today I focused on love-related items: your wedding ring, the invitation, the photo, the notes you and Dad used to slip under each other's doors when you were dating. I'm sure there was more, but I can't think of them right now—again, it's four in the morning. I probably should tell you where I hid everything, though, so I'll have it written down in case I forget. The invitation is in the front jacket of War and Peace, the photo is behind the new one of Lanie and me, and the notes are stuffed in my European history class notebook. The ring I buried in my jewelry box; even if he opens it he'll never find it in there. He'd have to dump it out and it would take a while.
It was weird touching it again. It was as beautiful as ever, but cold. Not just physically.
So now it's like you and Dad never had a relationship in this place. On to your favorite books tomorrow.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Love,
Kate