"Let it Go..."

It is absolutely lovely here in Maine. Especially this time of year, when the streets and shop windows are filled with garlands and wreaths, strangers greet you with holiday salutations; even a menorah or two shine from windows above. It's like walking through a Norman Rockwell painting.

And this is where, like Elsa in "Frozen," we both "Let it Go." Husband gets away from work (or at least tries to) and I can take a bit of a break from my normal duties as a housewife, writer and general on-call person for Mother-in-law and Sister.

The "Let it Go" idea is grand in theory, but alas, I forget that we live in the age of emails and cell phones.

We started out our day with a drive along the coast, from Kittery to Kennebunkport. Husband and I were in relaxation mode, free and unfettered. We stopped in Wells, at the Maine Diner for lunch. I ate the most wonderfully fresh salad of lobster right off the boat and a corn muffin so large, it looked like a miniature birthday cake. We both were happy as could be.

And then I heard the sound of a text. Why did I look? Sister wrote, "Our brother is mailing you the letter our mother wrote to you on a roll of shelf paper." This was something I had put in the back of my mind. The dreaded shelf paper letter I mentioned blogs ago.

Sister told me it began in my mother's handwriting, large on the page, "I am depressed..." What if it is a letter berating me? There will be no recourse to defend myself. My mother has been gone for five years. Should I read it? Throw it out? I am suddenly overwhelmed. There is no escape from the past. Even on vacation. How is it my mother can elicit such emotions of fear and dread, even now? "NOT HERE IN MAINE," I moaned. Letting go is not as easy as it seems.