A writer bridges pain and love, one sweet vanilla pudding at a time.
We walked through the screened-in front porch to see you coming out of the bathroom.
These memories are so strong, even though its been over 20 years.
The funny thing is that I didnt particularly enjoy the lunch I made.
The pudding came in three flavors: chocolate, chocolate swirl, andvanilla.
The subtle vanilla-scented, cream-colored pudding was sweeter and silkier than the other flavors.
The smell tapped into happy childhood memories of dabbing vanilla onto my wrists as mosquito repellent during summer.
The puddings loose and creamy texture coated my tongue and left behind a sweet flavor.
To this day, I find vanilla irresistible.
Pudding for lunch was special, especially since we didnt buy cookies or have other sweets in the house.
Why was lunch the exception?
I know you had to make every dollar stretch and buying pudding for us was an indulgence.
I talked about who was going to the dance together and the school projects I needed to work on.
But what we didnt talk aboutand what I wanted to talk aboutwas how helpless I felt.
I tried to stop you from spending endless hours in the bathroom picking at your skin.
But I couldnt help.
And you couldnt quit.
They just turned into fights that I couldnt win, so I stopped trying.
I pretended that our relationship was the same as it used to be.
Its not surprising that help didnt come sooner.
I know you now wish those years were different.
I know you wish the diagnosis came sooner and that you could have healed yourself.
I know its painful to talk about the years dominated by delusions.
Mom, I want you to know that it wasnt your fault.
I did not understand what was happening then, but I do now.
I also know that having lunch with Rebekah and me was a priority to youI appreciate that.
In all those years and through all the struggles, you never missed one single lunch together.
With Love Always, Rachel
