My mom admits that she’s not a great communicator; she prefers to write what she wants to say. I’ve learned a lot about her through written communication and though I yearn for a more intimate relationship with my mom, I am the same way. I write what I want to say. Writing is organized and can be edited and it helps my brain to settle and focus. The written word has weight and carries something of the eternal with it; the written word is participation in the dialogue of humanity. It is what’s left.
Writing instead of vocalizing is also distance. My self, my heart once removed scratched onto white space. It’s easier for me to write than to speak; this white space a place to put my self and my say.
That said, not only do I not know how to say this, but I don’t know how to write this. When my mom called this morning, she could not say the word either. But she called and we spoke to each other and wept. My mom told me what it was. My mom has cancer.
There are the words, there. There. For all their distance and for all the white space surrounding them and holding them and bearing them up, the words are not distant enough and it hurts and I can’t say anymore.
Instead, this is what others have said in their grief:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
…let the mourners come. Auden
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan
In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. Jesus
And this is what my mom wrote:
It's Pretty to Think So 
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