09th June, 2015. 3:15pm
One thing that drew me to the book wasn’t exactly the fact that it was about writing letters to a dead person, but mainly because I felt like there’s a part of the story that I can actually relate to even without having read the plot or the book yet, and I was right.
I have done this before. Not to any famous people who I don’t personally know or knows even just my name. I was writing love letters to my Mom.
A few weeks after my Mom passed away, I started writing letters to her. I don’t know where I got the idea from, but writing to her is just something that I always do ever since I was a kid. Only, I didn’t keep the letters with me. I fold them in a tiny square and then burn them, thinking it would reach her in heaven. That’s when I would keep the ashes. I don’t know why I kept them, but I did.
Just like Laurel, I used to blame myself for my Mom’s passing, as well. I know it’s not my fault that she got sick, but I blamed myself for not taking care of her as much as I did. When she passed away, I kept telling myself that maybe if I didn’t focus on school and extra curricular activities so much but look after her instead when she was still here, I could have prevented… No, not prevented, extended her life. Instead, I sat there on our living room, watching my favorite singer on TV while my Mom needed to be taken care of in her room.
What my Mom, and my family didn’t know was that watching my favorite singer became my solitude. I guess after Mom died she realized it, because that particular singer helped me through my grief. Writing out helps a lot, too, but listening to this particular singer pulled me from sinking low. When I listen to her, I see my Mom. So I hold on to her and her songs. I guess in that sense, I was a lot like Laurel’s. But Laurel needed so many people. I only need one. Also, unlike her, I never went to a therapist. Writing and music were my salvation.
Ava Dellaira’s Love Letters to the Dead was actually an OKAY book. I almost give up after reading a few chapters, but I told myself, “just keep reading; it will get better once you get to the middle of the story.” I was actually a bit disappointed about May’s story, but there was something in Laurel’s family story that just touches my heart. It was heartfelt and messed up, but beautiful in its own way.
I don’t write to Mom anymore. I even forgot when I stopped, but reading this book made me want to do it again. I’m not as sad as I was when I used to write letters to her, but doing it made me feel closer to her, like I can tell her everything, even if she’s not physically here anymore.