There are so many of you over there. So many gone, yet so many of us remain here, grappling with the void you’ve left on this side.

Some say you’ve ascended to a better place. But is that really the case? Or is it a convenient notion to soothe the pain we feel in your leaving us here on this earthly plane?

For all the destruction, the wars, the crime and trauma, can there truly be a better place than this one world in which we are born to live until death calls us to the mystery of the other side?

My mother often quipped, “There’s no green grass on the other side.” She had a penchant for twisting sayings in her own unique way. Like how she’d instruct my sister and me to “broom the floor.” Or that time she told my brother after his relentless teasing had become too much, “Oh, eat it.”

That one elicited outright laughter from my sister, Anne, and me. Knowing she was oblivious to its true meaning made it all the more comical, especially coming from a woman who never uttered a swear word in her life.

Though it pains me now to admit it, there were times my mother often appeared almost ridiculous, sometimes even, pathetic. With the perpetual clicking of her rosary beads, her lips moving in silent prayer, and her earnest declarations that she would pray for me. Growing up, I continually rejected her prayers with my assertions she should save them for those who wanted them. It was only later as I began to understand that prayers were her love language that I learned to embrace them as a precious offering from the woman who gave me life.

It was only in her passing that I began to understand her expressions of love were never intended to wound or harm. And, although at times her way of loving left me feeling overlooked, even invisible, I know she loved in the only way she knew how. Her way.

Growing up, I dreamed of a different kind of mother. My ideal mother. One I could confide in, seek counsel from, and proudly share my victories and setbacks, assured of her unwavering support and understanding.

But my mother was never that idealized figure.

For years, my perception of her failing to meet my expectations caused a rift between us. My resentment manifested not in words, but through my actions and demeanor around her.

I’m certain she sensed my disapproval and criticism. She was too kind to mention it or call me on my bad behaviour.

Forgiving myself for treating her as the misplaced scapegoat of my life’s missteps was a crucial step before and after she passed. My frustration was rooted not in her failings, but in my own unrealistic expectations.

This became the most profound lesson I learned from her: the expectations we place on others are often the architects of our own disappointment. Not because they intend to let us down, but because our expectations limit their ability to fully be themselves, to express their truth in our presence.

I can’t say what my mother is doing on the other side. I hope she’s standing in a circle with her mother and father, sharing the wondrous stories of their lives. I hope she’s laughing that tinkling laugh that sounded like bells on Christmas morning. And I hope she is dancing with her siblings as my father lovingly watches at the edge of the light that bathes her like a halo. I hope my brother and sister are dancing with her too.

Even though she often told me she loved to dance, I don’t remember ever dancing with her in life. I hope she’s dancing in death.

I hope her dance on the other side if full of wild abandon as she twirls to the rhythms that make her heart soar and her feet flutter as if borne on angel’s wings.

I hope she is dancing.

This morning, as I awoke, the muse whispered, and I found myself falling under her spell, a willing scribe to her inspiration; the words below emerged as if summoned.

Within, I sense a compelling need to craft a series of love letters to the other side—missives of the heart, perhaps solely to my sister, or maybe they will reach others. The specifics remain veiled, a silent testament to the great mystery beyond.

I don’t need the clarity of the destination; my sole obligation is to the creative impulse, to surrender to the gentle insistence of expression. Thus, I write, allowing the words to unfurl and drift freely, like snowflakes in the hushed serenity of a winter’s eve.

Love Letters to the Other Side
by Louise Gallagher


1.	

There's a restlessness within me, 

my mind a relentless gale, 

thoughts darting in sharp staccato— 

       like squirrels leaping through winter branches, 

empty-mouthed, in relentless search for sustenance 

against the cold’s embrace, 

an uninvited guest at a time when warmth is all I yearn for.


I seek that sustenance, a thought to anchor me, 

to the serene shores of the now, 

without spiraling into chaos, 

without stirring the well of tears that threatens to overflow— 

        tears I fear will never cease, and in their flood, 

drown me in your absence.


I reach for my phone

I want to share the trivialities, the daily follies, 

hoping to dispel these turbulent feelings, 

seeking solace, seeking peace.


But you are gone and all I have are these words, 

my silent sentinels on the page, echoing back a silent challenge— 

         to rise, to find the best in this moment, 

as you always believed I could.


You helped me carry life’s burdens with grace, 

helping me navigate with love 

through the missteps and the chaos of life. 


Did you know how fervently I wished to free you from pain? 

That I would have given anything to ease your burden, 

even though I knew I was not powerful enough to take it all away.


This I know with certainty—

  You are beyond pain now, 

dancing, laughing, leaping, somewhere beyond my sight, 

yet ever-present in the music of my heart.


And as it was in our talks, so it is with each word I write, each tear that falls— 

            I find solace in the calm, 

in the blanket of the never-ending love, you wove with such ease

into the tapestry of our family circle

forever connected through our memories of you.