Dear Mom,
It has been four and a half months (and change) since you died.  I still miss you daily; hear your gentle voice in my mind and heart. I hope that when my children remember my voice, it is not the yelling voice, but the calm, loving, reasonable one.
Maybe you've heard; Dad's getting married again. He told me the day before my birthday, which of course was his birthday, too. He says he did his mourning while you were dying. He is quite proud of himself, you see; he picked someone he claims you were close to. They have all sorts of plans to redecorate your house; that is fine, and that is necessary, but Mama. . .I wasn't ready to go back yet, and I wanted it to be just like you left it when I am ready.
I will have your wedding set, the one that sat on your finger for so long. I will have that, and some of your owls, and a set of your mixing bowls, and some assorted odds and ends. I already have your morphine, the two bottles left from the two days I used it to ease your pain. I have it hidden away; it feels dangerous, like a weapon. But it also feels safe, like an escape route I'll never use but take comfort in the knowing that it's there.
Today, I drive back to your house; the 7 hour trip from my home to the place you called home. This trip feels momentous, like a walkabout; like a discovery; like saying goodbye. I don't think that I will be returning there much after this last journey. I will spend my days there remembering, walking, soul-searching, and letting go. You were what held me to that place, Mama, and you are gone.