An Anniversary Apology

To my dead parents on the ninth anniversary of my father's death

Dear mom and dad,

I am sorry every day.

Every day I am sorry I cannot call you.

Every day I am sorry I cannot call you to say thank you.

For the one hundred thousand hours you sat in the carpool line or on the sideline of the games.

For the all hot dinners, the warm blankets, the long walks and Sunday church.

For the frustration and fear you must have sat with—for all the hopes you had, and the dreams left unrealized.

For the way you gave of your resources—your money, your time, your patience.

For all the ways your showed up, and for all the ways you didn’t.

Every day I am sorry I cannot call you to ask to forgive me.

For being an asshole.

That’s it. Perfect summary.

Kids are assholes to their parents. I was no exception.

Though, I did start later than most.

A compliant teen, I waited until I was fully launched to begin the airing of my grievances.

Sorry about the timing.

The therapy I need sooner I only found in my twenties and it helped me find my angry.

Angry at what happened. Angry at what didn’t happen. Angry that I’d folded in and held only myself accountable.

But I can hardly stomach how ungrateful I must have seemed. Honestly, how did you tolerate me.

Mercy, children are just so fucking ungrateful.

I think of you both with every stray dirty cup found nowhere near the dishwasher. When I replace the still white, expensive sneakers that no longer fit. When I’m idling in my awkward, oversized uncool car at midnight waiting for the return of field trip bus.

Forgive me for all the unsaid “thank yous.”

I had no idea how confusing and terrifying parenting is.

That its your own choices—not your kids’—that keep you up at night and you’re never sure about what you’re doing.

And then there’s the kids.

Their unexplained moods, aggressive silences, and the party drop offs that don’t feel quite right.

The perennial parental question “Are you okay?” I never answered you honestly—which is how I know my kids aren’t either.

Parenting is a special kind helplessness.

But it never occurred to me I’d be doing it without you.

Every day I’m sorry I cannot call you and I forgive you.

I’m really saying it for myself of course.

Because you are both dead now.

And I have walked in your shoes now.

I suspect you know this, but I just miss you.

Any pain I carried from being your daughter is long processed now.

Every day I am sorry I cannot call you to say I love you.

How I miss the feeling of it.

We lived our love.

I carry it with me still.

I am supposed to keep to keep your memory alive.

But its not the memory of you I miss.

It’s your voice.

And your hands, and your laugh, and the way you hummed in the kitchen.

I miss the rough torn newspaper clippings with my name written in felt pen across the top. Then scrawled again across the envelope with the stamp licked, then walked three quarters of a mile to the post office where Carol never failed to ask, “how are all those kids of yours doing.”

On this ninth (and almost seventh anniversary) I just miss you.

I miss you.

And I am certain I will again on the tenth.

Meghan Riordan Jarvis, MA, LCSW is an author, podcast host (Grief is My Side Hustle), two-time TEDx speaker, educator, and psychotherapist specializing in trauma and grief

.