Letters

[Teresa]

The last letter came in 1980 and was added to the others, a decade's worth in a plastic grocery bag which would accompany me when I went to live with her.

 

In 1983 the letters were joined by two small bear pins - a white one for her, brown for me, her two favorite shirts, a blue head band and a PDR full of red ink where she heavily underlined the name and dangers of the drug that killed her; the bag of her then followed me through ten more moves, three marriages, four births and a series of hurricanes.

 

For twenty-six years the blue head band pulled back my hair each morning as cool water splashed a face similar to hers, as makeup was scrubbed away, blemishes healed, as I unconsciously wore her, went through her long ago motions remembered by the child who believed in immortality.

 

I have never intentionally visited the grave at Rosehill Cemetery, though I stood near it when we buried my brother beside her, tried not to look at the deep gray marble etched with her name because it was proof, stationary, permanent.

 

The two favorite shirts pulled from her closet the day after the funeral - one little girlish, the other hippy - are folded neatly and stacked at the top of my closet, no longer holding the smell of her, that buttery sweetness mixed with White Diamonds perfume; the PDR is outdated, its aqua cover torn; the faded bear pins and head band were lost sometime around my forty-fourth birthday, her age when she died, my age when I began writing our story.

 

Only the letters hold significance now, resonate, handwriting sometimes vibrant loops or shaky, her voice softly lilting on pages of colorful stationary, transcendent, "I love you, don't ever forget."

 

 

[Jamie Hogan]

Every one of these I've read is just brutally beautiful. So honest and bold and hurting, every syllable, but proud. You really have so many melodies in you, it's astonishing.

[Cheeky DeVille]

I can feel where you're at...you've expressed your pain so beautifully. I agree with Gita, even to get a postcard now would mean the world to me but cest la vie...as one of the lucky ones i still hav a few letters, esp a lot of love letters and cards ;) 

[Kristine_ES]

yes, I liked Angela's comment and agree with this... it's rounded and tribute to a gift. 

[Angela]

I especially like the reference to your forty-fourth birthday and the pivot of it.  This six has a graceful and lovely arc.  Your voice is strong, as always, but there is a more rounded edge to it here.  This is a special kind of remembrance - more of a tribute to a gift than to a specific memory.  Interesting and engaging.

[mal]

Wow, such a moving tribute to your mother, as you share your bond with her through your letters, expressing the value of significant clothing , colorful stationary, and of course her Special perfume . All adding to her page of life - Beautifully expressed for sure.

[Gita]

People don't write letters, anymore. I always knew my parents' handwriting and my grandmother's, my uncle's and best friend's from school because they wrote me letters at summer camp. Now, I bet there are seven-year-old children who've never gotten a letter. We who have those bags to carry with us are the lucky ones, I think.  Excellent sketch, this.

[Toby Tucker Hecht]

Memories are diamonds to hold on to.

[John Ammirati]

Excellent. You pack a lot of punch in six sentences.