Down the wishing well

The wishing won't stop.

It started when I left the post office. After my third day in a row there, selecting the perfect stamp (bonsai), asking about weight and delivery dates, adding a second stamp (yet another bonsai), and finally parting with Mark's pretty paper masterpieces, I pushed open the door, walked out onto the New York City sidewalk, and reached for my phone. All I wanted to do was call her and say, "Ma, can you believe it?" Only in her would I have been able to confide how vulnerable I felt: I'd just told 120 people that Mark and I were in love. I joked with Mark later, saying who knew the girl who blogs her innermost thoughts would ever feel exposed by a wedding invitation?

It happened again today, when I saw a picture on Facebook of a girl I knew in high school being walked down the aisle, flanked by her father and mother. I cursed my Jewish heritage for including both parents in the patriarchal tradition. If I were Catholic, my mother's absence wouldn't matter in that moment. But I know it does. With just my dad there (despite his wonderfulness!), the weight is uneven. Grief gives you an eternal limp.

If you've gone down the wishing well, you know what I know: It's not good to wish for things that can't come true.

So, I thought that instead of wishing to talk to my mother, I would write to her here over the next eight weeks leading up to the wedding. Here goes...

Dear Mom,

It's your little girl. I'm getting married!

His name is Mark and he's just lovely. Warm and funny and strong. Sometimes I worry you'd call him an "Eddie Haskell," because he's quite the charmer, particularly with the older ladies. But I think that would have only been your first impression. You would have grown to see what I see, and told me I'm very lucky, and to treasure him.

I'm trying on my wedding dress for the first time on Saturday, my 30th birthday. I'm calling it the best me-to-me present a gal could get: a preview of how she'll look on one of the happiest days of her life. You will be with me, as you always are, since I honor you every day by wearing your engagement stone. (I hope you approve of the beautiful facelift Mark gave to it!)

I try hard to honor you in my everyday actions. Smile. Talk to strangers. Be there for your friends. Impact the lives of others. Be kind to those less fortunate. Notice people who are often overlooked. Laugh too loud. Laugh at yourself. Laugh when life is good. Laugh even when it's not.

Sometimes the concept of "getting married" feels scary. Something that's happening to someone else. Something I can't possibly be old enough to do. Sometimes I'm surprised by who it is that fits me. Sometimes I'm scared of being this lucky -- of my happiness being found out and taken away. Best to act nonchalant so they'll skip over me. Maybe they knew how much we loved each other, Mom.

Next month it'll be the 10 year anniversary of when you passed away. I can't believe it's been that long. If I heard someone else say that, I'd say, "Get over it, man!" I wish I could. But your loss is still that -- a loss -- especially as I near such a delicate day.

This morning, I accidentally slammed my underwear drawer shut, and the photo of you, me, and Daddy came crashing down, bringing with it some loose change and my brand new bottle of perfume (an early birthday gift from Laura -- yes, 17 years later, she's still my best friend). I felt I heard you say: "Stop wishing, Missy. Enough!"

I'll try.

Love,
Missy

A Jew goes to church

I went to church today. Yes, you remember correctly: I'm Jewish. But my Italian neighborhood is flooded with the most beautiful churches, and ever since moving here, I've found their architecture and open doors alluring. But I've never gone in, afraid of being "outed" as Jew, even though I know the church is open to everyone.

Today, I passed my favorite church: a massive structure that looks like it's lived there forever. "Open prayer and meditation, 2-4PM," the sign outside said. I passed by, again chickening out.

But it's been a tough week. Yesterday was the anniversary of when Sally died, and today is the anniversary of the funeral. My heart is heavy. Not even a block later, I turned around and walked back to the church.

Empty except for a woman tidying pamphlets with downcast eyes, the church was dark and dusty with small bits of afternoon sunlight streaming through the stained glass. I chose an aisle seat in the middle section of pews, self-conscious when the wood creaked as I sat down.

I looked around, in awe of this church I had always longed to visit. But only a minute later, I realized my eyes were closed, and I was crying.

When I opened my eyes again, I noticed two curious things. First, a small sign on the back of the first section of pews that read 22 with an arrow pointing to the bottom right. 22 is the number I associate with my mom, who was born on 2/22, and I notice it often in the time (2:22), address numbers (22, 222), and other places. It always comforts me. Second thing I noticed: a book in front of every seat, "Hymnal 1982," the same year I was born, the year Sally gave birth to her little girl.

I heard Sally tell me, "See, I am here if you look for me. But if you don't look for me, I can't be here." I understood: It is up to me to keep her alive. That is my responsibility. Look and you shall receive.

I wear the (Christmas) pants in this relationship!

I promised I'd tell you about my holiday plans, so here goes...

Even though I'm 100% Jewish, I've always celebrated Chanukah and Christmas. Whenever friends tease me that Jews order Chinese food and go to the movies on Christmas, I say defiantly: "Not me! I celebrate Christmas!"

It started when I was a kid. My cousins Susi and Julia celebrate both holidays, so every Dec. 25 my family traveled from Long Island to Brooklyn to take pictures by the tree and exchange presents. I even had a pair of red and green plaid pants (stylish, I know!) that I dubbed "my Christmas pants!" After my mom passed away, we continued going to their house. Each year, at least one relative would say how strange the holiday felt without my mom. Who knew a Jew would be missed on Christmas!

As a teenager, I also started celebrating Christmas Eve. My best friend Laura's family invited me to their house to indulge in homemade Italian food, Christmas carols edited to include family jokes, and the most delicious cookies I've ever eaten. My favorite were the peanut butter-chocolate kiss ones. Yum!

Last year I began a new tradition. I traveled to Colorado to spend Christmas with my boyfriend Mark's family. On Christmas Eve, after Mark's 6-year-old nephew went to sleep, we all tip-toed downstairs to put our presents under the tree. Never before had I been able to play Santa! The next morning we woke up to a white Christmas. A foot of snow covered the yard and giant snowflakes fell slowly from the sky. It was the most picturesque scene. Imagine me -- a little Jewish girl from Long Island -- seeing a white Christmas in Colorado!

This year Mark and I will travel back to Colorado for round 2 of Christmas with his fam. Tingles of excitement (OK, and 10% nerves!) flutter in my stomach. I'm happy for another chance to get to know everyone better and spend time together. I also love who Mark is in his home state. There's a calm and warmth he never quite achieves in busy-busy New York City.

Do you have any advice for visiting your significant other's family?