239. Mailing Memories - Irene Buninga McGuinness
The author and her mother in 1957
Last weekend, I wrote a letter to my mother, who passed away sixteen years ago.
I’ve always been a passionate letter writer, a delight that stems from childhood. My mom emigrated from Holland to Canada in 1951, with three small children in tow, and she was always anxious for news from back home. When a letter arrived from overseas, she would breathe a sigh of relief. It was a light blue vellum airmail letter, slightly translucent, with a thin rim of barbershop stripes around the edges. I’d watch as she carefully slid the blade of a sharp paring knife around three sides to open. It had to be done just right. If she cut the wrong side, the letter would be sliced into three pieces, cutting some sentences in half horizontally, making it difficult to read.
When the Isolation Journals launched the 30-day journaling project, I thought, What fun it’d be to keep a daily letter-writing journal! For me, writing to someone I knew was easier than just writing at random. I’m consistently writing letters, and this could bring it to a whole new level. I decided I’d start with a picture—maybe from my massive wooden chests of photographs, or from the cloud. Some letters might end up being pages long, others only a few lines in a card. If it seemed warranted, I’d send the letter—because who doesn’t like to receive a letter in their mailbox? It’s so rare these days.
I began with drafting a list of people who had birthdays coming up. I have a massive family; April appears to be a busy month. Then I added people who impacted me over the years—my husband, close friends, teachers, relatives. But why stop there? I’m known to write letters to God, so I added God to the list, and deceased family members and friends, too.
Last weekend, I wrote a letter to my mother, who passed away sixteen years ago. It was an extremely painful time. I was absent when she died, and so much was left unsaid. My pen began to flow with pain and loss. I then began distinguishing her strengths from her struggle and recalled the love evident in the silence. I remembered her laughter, which though infrequent was hearty when it erupted. I recalled sensing her disappointments, and how she stoically carried them. Her home and life were emblems of modesty, but her garden expressed otherwise. It was a riot of color.
On and on my pen flowed. My words flew from grief to gratitude that time has a way of filing down memory’s rough edges. When I finished, I was a veritable puddle. I decided to share these memories with my three sisters. The healing was instantaneous and powerful.
- Irene Buninga McGuinness
