Love Letters From My Mother

By D.C. Potter

This coming of age memoir is based on the letters from and visits to my mother after years of her absence. The letters and visits go back and forth from a rural town outside of Buffalo, New York and the tropical island of St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands. My teenage years are filled with longing for my mother's affection and acceptance. Can the letters I hold in my hand help to make me complete? It is fun, funny, romantic and sad. I tell this story with the hope of finding love lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.C. Potter
• Release date: Aug 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311238603

D.C. Potter

~ more to come soon!

Book preview

Love Letters From My Mother

By D.C. Potter

Copyright 2015 Debra Cryan Potter

Edited by Bill Michalek

Cover design and photo by D.C. Potter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in newspapers, magazines or journals.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Debra Cryan Potter at Smashwords

Table of Contents

Incomplete

Chapter ~ 1 ~ October 1972

Chapter ~ 2 ~ June 1973

Chapter ~ 3 ~ September 1973

Chapter ~ 4 ~January 1994

Chapter ~ 5 ~ June 1975

Chapter ~ 6 ~ October 1975

Chapter ~ 7 ~ June 1976

Chapter ~ 8 ~ September 1976

Chapter ~ 9 ~ January 1977

Chapter ~ 10 ~ October 1977

Chapter ~ 11 ~ Not The End

Note From the Author

Incomplete

The most important thing about being a happy child

Is having your mothers love,

Even if she is not around,

If you know she truly loves you,

You can be content with that fact alone.

I believed that if my mother really loved me

I could be more

Accepting,

Caring,

A more loving person

With my mother’s love,

My life would be complete.

Chapter ~ 1 ~ October 1972

On the floor in the back of my closet is a small red and blue box. Across the lid in bold letters is written super box, white stars contrast the red. On the side, it says CAMPUS KIT INC. Limit one per student, only $1.25. I have no idea where the box came from or what originally came in the box, but in it now are letters from my mother. Long letters, so beautifully written, each one filled with details of her life. Years of work, dogs, men, cars, adventures, and reasons I could not come to live with her, so many reasons. When I look at the letters I see her attempts to explain why. Explaining as much as a teenager could handle, maybe more, or maybe too much, I’m not sure, of why I could never come to live with her.

That is all I can remember about the letters; that I could not come, she did not have enough money, she was very busy, it wasn’t a good time. Every time I looked at the box, it reminded me of just how much I resent her for not wanting me and including me in her life. As time passed and I grew older, I could never bring myself to reread any of the letters, I did not ever again want to remember the loneliness, the feelings of being unwanted, and the selfish desire for love and approval I wanted from her as a young teenager. I wasn’t sure I would have the emotional whatever it was I needed, if I did read them. I did not want to hate her more.

I would stash the box away, and not see it again for years, only to come across it when packing to move or while rummaging around in a closet for an old fabric remnant, some wrapping paper, or like today cleaning the closet, trying to clean up my life, packing up my last boyfriend.

I pulled out the box, opened it and looked at all the old airmail envelopes addressed to me, in small, neat and fancy, cursive writing. I dumped out the box of envelopes and looked through them. I counted them, there were twenty-seven. I put them in order, then picked up the one with the oldest postmark, pulled out the letter and unfolded it. I stared at it with unfocused eyes, unable to make myself see. With a deep breath I cleared my eyes and read the date, October 27, 1972. Seven days past my thirteenth birthday.


My mother left when I was six years old and had just started second grade. I came home from school and looked for her. After searching the down stairs, I climbed the spiral staircase of our huge Victorian home. Opening my parent’s bedroom door, looking around I saw gaping holes in the dresser. The top two drawers of the dresser that my mother and father shared were gone. I knew she was gone, too. I sat down on her bed and cried, clearly remembering everything I had seen in those drawers; a box with hair clips, embroidered hankies, a string of pearls, a page boy wig, a box of baby teeth, neat stacks of sweet smelling, soft pastel sweaters...

In the spring she came to visit. My mother’s new car, a huge, ugly, rusty, dented gold Rambler rattled up the driveway. She put the car in park with a clank and climbed out the passenger side door. The dented driver’s side door was tied shut with thick rope. The large dresser drawers were set next to each other, filling the back seat. Long frizzy hair framed her suntanned face. She smelled musky and wore a patchwork suede poncho over worn, bell-bottom blue jeans; we hardly recognized her. My mother gave my little sister a doll. It was her birthday. She gave me a hair clip from a box out of one of the drawers. She didn’t stay long. She didn’t stay for dinner.

In mid summer my brothers, sisters and I squeezed into my father’s ‘67 Mustang and went to visit my mother. She lived in a small apartment in the city. I sat on a white rattan couch in the front window, my three brothers wrestled on the floor as my mother and sisters sat across the room talking quietly. From my spot I could see my father smoking a cigarette in the car parked across the street, I could see into the tiny, bright kitchen, I could see into the bedroom: the edge of the bed covered in a bright flowered fabric. The dresser drawers were set next to each other, on top of a radiator, under a long row of clean windows. The ceilings were tall and the rooms airy. The apartment was clean and bright with sunshine and colors. I asked my mother where she got the couch, where did that painting come from, what about that lamp, and who was that man that just walked by the front window? I couldn’t breathe. I left with my brothers. My sisters stayed for the rest of the summer.

In late autumn my father started a bonfire on the lower lawn. We proceeded to carry the entire contents of our Victorian home out of the house and down to the lower lawn creating a huge pile; the Duncan Phyfe dining table with chairs, the buffet and china cabinet. We carried and stacked sofas, chairs, end tables, coffee table, kitchen set, beds, vanities and all the dressers including my father’s, the one with missing drawers down to the pile. We all pitched in, dragging the huge and heavy antique pieces of furniture down the vast lawn. My father started a bon-fire and with a tremendous explosion the old wood ignited instantly, then smelled and smoldered for days.

My father bought an entire household of used furniture, everything, including paintings and a hi-fi. We moved from our grand home into a tiny three-bedroom cape across the road and though you could see our old house from the road, you could not see it from our new home or from the yard or on the way into town. There was hardly anything left to remind us of our past.

During the summer when I was nine, my mother popped in to visit; we were on our best behavior! She flew into our lives, brought Van Morrison and Joni Mitchell records, granola and sprouts, incense and love beads. She spent two days, then said goodbye and left totally overwhelmed by six unruly children.

Three years later, we moved out of town into the rural hills. The only neighbors, few that they were, were teenage boys and little children. I was sad, I felt isolated, lonely and misunderstood. I began eighth