Honorable Mention
The Letter
by Mark West
It was a few years ago. It happened unexpectedly. They found Mom collapsed in the hallway of her Carson City, Nevada, home, probably trying to make it to bed. I say unexpectedly because she hadn’t been sick; still, she was a few days shy of her 87th birthday.
Mom came from hearty Midwest, Lutheran stock, where family was important, even though her father was an alcoholic who beat her mother. Still, back then grandmothers were revered. They could expect to get cards and letters that began with “How are you? I am fine…” and visits from grandkids who had to suffer through the overwhelmingly floral musk of grandma’s perfume.
In the ‘90s, Mom and Dad retired to Nevada, while I got married and moved to Hermosa. Mom always loved kids but only had two — my twin brother and me. Later in life she admitted she’d always wanted a girl, but said she was happy with how things turned out.
But who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? After a long string of trials and disappointments, my wife got pregnant. And for some reason, even before the first ultrasound, I knew it was a girl. Not too long after Hannah was born, we loaded up the Subaru and drove from Hermosa to Carson City for Christmas.
By then, Dad was in a wheelchair, choosing to forego the chemotherapy recommended by his doctors to fight the cancer that had returned. “Eighty-five years is long enough,” he said. “I’m ready to move on.” I have a picture of him holding Hannah in his lap, beaming like the North Star. His light went out a month later.
Over the years, Mom would fly down to Hermosa for a week or two at a time, eager to dote on Hannah and lend a hand to my wife and me as we juggled our careers. The beach was always a favorite, along with meals at Ruby’s, Cialuzzis, and Joe’s Crab Shack. She also got to know the other kids and parents on our 3rd street cul-de-sac, which had gone through its own mini baby boom—there were usually eight to 12 kids running around, all within a few years of Hannah’s age.
Sometimes we’d visit Mom and her sisters — three of whom had also retired to Carson City, probably after reading the same AARP article about the benefits of moving to northern Nevada. Winters were spent sledding at the golf course behind mom’s house and ice skating at the rink between Cactus Jack’s Cozy Casino and Carson City Elks Lodge. Summers meant Lake Tahoe, walks downtown, and Grandma inventing new ways to spoil her only granddaughter. Life felt full. For a while.
But time, as always, had other plans.
My wife and I drifted apart. Then came the lawyers, the custody battles, the collateral damage. One casualty was Hannah’s relationship with both me and my mother. Divorce and adolescence turned her into a stranger– first to us, then maybe to herself. Leave it up to the vagaries and emotional backlash of divorce and her transmogrifying into a teenager. I guess sometimes, timing is everything.
Not too long before Mom died, I was on the phone with her, and she mentioned she’d be spending Thanksgiving alone, so I bought a plane ticket to Reno and surprised her a few days before Thanksgiving. We drove up to the lake, did a little gambling at Cactus Jack’s (Pennypalooza- Cactus Jack’s Row of Penny Slots!), and went to a wine tasting that was hosted by my cousin Amy.
Amy ended up inviting us to Thanksgiving at her house, and Mom offered to prepare one of her specialties — whipped cream. Yeah, she never was much of a cook, and I know you can buy it in a can, but it was Mom’s signature dish. I picked up a few bottles of excellent wine to complement her amazing whipped cream. We had a glass or two as she prepared her dish, and I took pictures and posted them on Instagram.
We drank and laughed and toasted with Amy’s family and friends, plus a dog or two. That night, I didn’t feel noble. I just felt lucky. I’d turned what could’ve been another lonely holiday into something beautiful with the woman who brought me into the world.
Even though those few days were filled with love and laughter, something still felt unfinished. A few months later, Mom passed away. The saddest part wasn’t just losing her, it was that she never got the chance to enjoy the days she’d always dreamed of with her granddaughter. The walks, the talks, the shared laughter—gone before they could begin, replaced by silence.
Which might explain the notebook.
I found it not long after she passed. A simple spiral-bound ledger with a few scattered pages of thoughts. Several false starts. Half-sentences. Bits of an unfinished letter to Hannah. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her in seven or eight years, but clearly, she hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
I’ve pieced those notes together here, adding only what was needed for clarity. The rest is hers—the words, the love, the hope. Maybe someone will read it – a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter — and be reminded of what really matters, before the silence settles in.
Hannah-
This is all I have to leave for you. As I am not the typical grandma — not much of a cook, nor artistic, but I love children and I am good with them, so I hope I will get to show you this. I’m still a child at heart; I always liked to read to you, play with you, and spend time with you.
Please remember that life is not all about riches. It’s about how it feels to hold a caterpillar in your hand. It’s about walking in the rain. It’s about not being ashamed, and how it feels to laugh and to cry, for that is what makes you so special.
I realize you were born in a time when things were so different from when I came into this world, as well as when your mother and father did. Please be patient with us and realize that our times were for us; we had to live through the things we did to learn and grow. And they were good times. We would like for you to experience them as we did — as the reason we are what we have become.
Love always, Grammy.
