I remember my mom's handwriting vividly. She had beautiful handwriting.
It's a gift she failed to pass down to both my sister and me. It was
lovely and charming. Girly yet powerful. Mostly I remember her writing
when she made excuse letters for me when I got sick and had to miss
school. I remember how I loved the way she wrote my name...(Please
excuse Karen from being absent...) her capital K was so feminine yet
strong... I never liked my name. I always thought it was so short and
simple. I felt it wasn't special enough. But not when my mom wrote it, I
felt she scrawled my name with all the warmth and love in the world. I
felt special.
I also remember her staying at our kitchen table writing long letters to
my dad who was working overseas. This was way before the age of emails
and chats. It was during a time when only a privileged few had the honor
of owning telephones in their homes. Writing was their only way of
communicating with each other. I never thought of my parents as sappy
and romantic, but in their own way I guess they were.
She would write on her thick yellow pad using an old metal fountain pen.
Its ink bottle, still in its original box all blotched with ink stains,
always ready by the side, in case she needed to refill. She wrote in
beautiful and seamless longhand. I always admired how she wrote her long
letters, and believe me they were long... She kept our father up to date
with the daily humdrum of our household, the quizzes we had and how we
did, who got sick with what and even the latest scandal in showbiz and
the local news.
I guess miss my mom's handwriting because it mostly reminds me of my
youth. I miss how things were.
Mostly I just really miss my mom.
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