(this is a longer post, but its a short story, choose your own adventure type. comment, post, and let’s see where it goes…)

Dear Kid,

I used to think I survived by magic and miracles the great shame of my 30’s, testing new waters at age 40. Sure, as the days become sunny in the spring, I was sure it was over. Well, I was wrong. Some say you can outlast your deep pain, but I’m writing you now so you know you need to deal with it if you can. Just do it. I cast my dye with a brown soul. I love him. And, you were born. Thank God, for you.

But, in the dark parts of myself, I couldn’t outlast the pull of self-punishment and pain. It’s like a noose around your neck that has slack and then the master yanks from time to time to get you in order. This is the last pull. It overtook me long ago, when my expiration date was up, but I resisted until this moment –  its final judgement. It’s something that fell apart, like cheap toilet paper disintegrating under a flood of water. I flushed my dreams, hard work, the good and the bad, the instinct that carried me, until at last we are here, together, finally talking about what is really going on. 

You’ve heard me say many times by now, “It’s never too late to do the right thing.” You can make a difference. 

Some won’t understand the bottomless, hole of shit I’ve swam through to get to love you. I did. I do. I will do. And? Selfishly, it helped me stay alive in the crazy. I have breathed until I cannot anymore. 

Finally, I make my departure with this final word on life, tears, race, and who you are. Never forget who you are. Never forget who you are. Never. You are kind, brilliant, smart, brown, funny, but above all you see the deep of others eyes, hear the cries outside the pitch. You aren’t tone deaf. And, I thank God for that too. The entire world will feel tone deaf, unable to channel the high-pitched calls of the weak, vulnerable, fearful, and lost ones. But, you will. It will be your burden to hear their pitched tones echoing above the cheery conversations of your neighbor.                     

I bore this great burden well and not-so-well for much of my life, until it finally turned into a rage I could barely harness for anything decent. What happened in my despair ended my hope, but it doesn’t have to be that way for you. You will carry this burden, it has been put upon you by fate, perhaps genetics. It has been done. You can choose to tell yourself you don’t bear it, but in that moment-of-moments you will see it is a lie. You do. It’s passed from me to you. But, I didn’t force it upon you, it was in a way the destiny of generations of silent ghosts, not silent any longer.

So, your best bet is to settle into the depth of pain you will feel. Find your people, your friends, and they will be few. If you have one, give thanks. For two dear friends, it will be an abundance. I know. At the end, I lost the only two I had. Victims of my rage. Terrorized by my nightmares. I couldn’t hide from those two the colossal shame, rage, life I lost. It all weighed so heavy on me, I cast bits to them and they drowned. So, if you have that one, hold them close. 

There was a main point before I expired to which I cried, screamed, kicked, cut, and did it all for help. Walls of evangelical idols stood in my way. They will stand in yours. Towers of idols founded on greed, pride, and surges of deceptive kindness. It’s not worth your time to knock on the doors to those churches filled with idol worshippers. They are mazes of wicked darkness. First chance they’ll get, they’ll rip you apart, glue you together, and send you out to see your people who won’t be able to see all of the cracks. Stay away. 

Kid. You are growing fast. I won’t be here to finish the story. I’m apologizing now, but you will hate me and love me and then hate me again for it. You are right to do it, to go between the hate and love. Throw that hate and love on a balance and see if I am in the middle of your memories when you finally settle. 

I wanted to be your guide, or better yet, cast off my horror, live that feel-good life I see on commercials. It wasn’t possible, not really. AND, even though I wanted to cast it off, I really didn’t. Inside I pleaded for relief for me and for you.

I love you, take care, goodnight.

Before the letter, three days before:

The cherry blossoms are blooming in my back yard. Sun is shining through the back door which leads to our large cedar deck. Yesterday the neighbor’s riding lawn mower tracked back and forth over the spring grass, leaving clear, square lines. It smells fresh, and promising. My kind-of dining room table is cluttered with an assortment of paper airplanes, picture books, and a pan of refried beans. It’s 9:52 a.m. and I still haven’t eaten. 

I want a coffee from my favorite social gathering place, but they are closed. My two cats, one a tabby and the other a mutt, lie down, sunbathing in the light filtering through the glass door. 

There is a settled-unsettled-not sure feeling in the air. Cooking, cleaning, tidying-up are all important tasks. It’s past 8 a.m. and I didn’t frantically call the school to let them know the kids have devices and high-speed internet. No one will answer anyway, like the rest of the (800) phone numbers these days. I’ll check in later.

My husband’s online business is thriving in the chaos of the pandemic. We are making a killing off of “sick air”. That’s wrong, right? A week ago, my chest compressed into short breaths. I asked, do I have coronavirus? That question feels far away. What does it matter? We are making enough money to eat out a few times a week, store enough food for a month, and binge buy gadgets.  I guess I can sit here a while longer. It’s clear we won’t starve and both of us are doing just enough to placate our surface consciousness. 

The bedroom door slams. She’s awake? Why? 

To be continued…