Poetry / Melissa Fite Johnson

:: Found: Lines from My Mother’s Emails, 2002–2012 ::

	

First, I don’t like this new Hotmail format, do you? Sorry I was kind of
winey-piney when you left and put the guilt on you. In truth, it had been
a nice day. I know you’re very BUSY but, of late, you don’t respond
to my e-mails, which is frustrating to me (especially my last one
about my missing cell phone). I finally found it for I had to ASSUME,
if you weren’t responding, you didn’t have it. Let’s keep politeness going,
and even if it’s very brief, respond to each other’s e-mails. Sorry
if I’ve been too needy. I was disappointed, but that’s life. Thinking of you
in your very BUSY week! (Be sure to take your vitamins). It’s disappointing
that your brother doesn’t keep in closer touch. He “fades away”
every weekend. These days I miss seeing you! Maybe the nicer thing
(for my feelings) would be if you’d said to your friend, “My mother and I
usually meet for dinner on Thurs. nights but you’re more than welcome
to join us” or “She has Bible Study at 7:00, so I could come over then.”
Hi Busy Daughter, I miss you! I’m sorry about yesterday. I overreacted
to what I felt was a hurtful situation. Every year, I’ve gone to Dad’s grave.
You would’ve known if you’d cared enough to ask or shown some interest.
And let’s face it, I wouldn’t have had to be there for you to go to Dad’s grave
with Marc. Has he ever even seen it? It’s sad how things are evolving
between us… I will try to control my temper and my comments more.
Sad about Patrick Swayze’s death, huh? Hi Busy Daughter.
I sure understand how busy you are. I miss you! Today it’s 12 years ago
that Dad died. Dear busy daughter, I know you can’t do the movies
until Sunday, but are you able to do dinner tonight? That’s fine, but maybe
(when school starts), we can get back to that Thurs. night tradition.
I understand where you’re coming from but, truly, I hardly see you
(once or twice a week). I’ll miss you, dear daughter! I’m sorry about
all I might have done to upset or hurt you in your childhood and teen years.
Circumstances (for all of us) were not ideal (with Dad’s health situation)
and I’m sure that stress and worries caused me to say or have done
some hurtful things. I agree it doesn’t excuse my bad behavior but I do feel
it does help to explain it. I don’t want to have the few, precious times
we’re together end up being painful. Well, maybe I’ll see you Thursday night
or not. It must be your lunch or planning time for you to write such a nice,
long e-mail. I know you DO try and you’re a precious daughter. It’s me, not you.

From the writer

:: Account ::

I used to believe my mother was two people. Twenty percent of the time, she was who I wrote about in the essay The Account published last November. The other eighty percent of the time, she was her “real” self, loving and kind—the person in this poem. Growing up, I told myself to weather the not-her times and focus on the true her (much as I would later do with an alcoholic boyfriend when he drank). As I entered my twenties, the decade of my life this poem spans, this kind of rationalizing became harder, and so did our relationship.

In 2014, I insisted we go to counseling together. My mother brought to our first session the email I’d sent her stating that if she were anyone else—a friend, an aunt—I would’ve cut ties with her long ago. In that email I went on to explain all the reasons why, but my mother didn’t bring that part. She brought the three sentences that hurt her and literally cut away the seven paragraphs that hurt me. When I filled our therapist in on the missing context, my mother said she didn’t remember any of those incidents. She didn’t deny anything, but she shrugged and said, “Her memory is so much better than mine.” We tried counseling for a year, until she moved to Kansas City to live with her new partner.

I wrote this found poem in 2023, after I finally decided to end our relationship. Reading through our old emails in search of understanding and closure, I realized that lines I once considered loving and kind were actually incredibly manipulative. The word “busy” in particular is a weapon. Honestly, it felt healing to cut and paste her words to suit my purposes—the reverse of what happened in that first counseling session. Compiling this poem helped me realize that while my mother has apologized to me, as she did at the counselor’s and in these emails, she has never addressed the specific hurts I’ve tried to discuss with her. Those she cut away; those she didn’t remember. Instead, she was sorry for all she “might have done.” My mother wasn’t two people. All of her words and actions were the true her, and they were all reasons to leave.

Melissa Fite Johnson is the author of three full-length collections, most recently Midlife Abecedarian (Riot in Your Throat, 2024). Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Pleiades, HAD, Whale Road Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere. Melissa teaches high school English in Lawrence, KS, where she and her husband live with their dogs.