In another life, I will not owe anybody anything but a "thank you" or "you're welcome". I will save for a rainy day before I save for a television. I will act in a way where my kids can learn from my actions instead of my words. God will be part of my life and not just my weekend. My mother and father will be given more admiration and less grief. My kids will be raised with the benefit of the doubt instead of in the benefits of society. My pets will be my friends and not my servants. My political party choice will not override my moral choices. My book collection will be longer and broader than my movie collection. My schooling will be judged by values other than tuition and expected salary ranges. I will thank soldiers for their courage every time I see them instead of wishing I could find the courage in myself. I will be brave, I will be strong, I will persevere. And most of all I will realize that if there is any time left, there is still time to start right away.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Two Cards and Ten Years
It’s the day before Christmas and I prepare two cards. First is the yearly card, from my family to hers. The ornament goes in, the signatures go on, the envelope shuts.
The second card is different – it is only from me, and it is only for her.
I pause at the inserted Valentine, treasuring it one last time. I know it will be the last time I see it for many years – maybe the last I ever see of it. I trace the scrawling letters that my own hand wrote at the age of five in 1983. I smile at her first note to me, dated 1993.
Ten years.
“We can share this, but don’t throw it out,” she ended her note.
The years pass by in increments of three sentences, on sticky sheets of two by two. Mother’s Day, Christmas, birthdays, the Valentine traveled back and forth between us, until it stopped.
It stopped in 2000, and it is 2010. Those were the years of dating, marriage, babies, houses, life.
The “Me” years.
Ten years.
Forty chances – twenty birthdays, ten Mother’s Days, ten Christmases - all gone.
All chances lost.
Ten years.
We travel on Christmas and the presents get handed out. I watch as my bag of two cards gets passed across the room to her.
She opens the first card. She handles the ornament, she smiles and puts it back in the bag.
She opens the second. I hold my breath. She looks at the Valentine for a long time.
Do you remember?...Read and remember...I cross the room.
She reads through the notes, her eyes fill with tears.
I put my hand on her shoulder as I walk by, and she stands to thank me. We hug and we cry, happy tears.
She sits back down at the table, and opens the first card.
She handles the ornament, she smiles and puts it back in the bag.
The second card is different – it is only from me, and it is only for her.
I pause at the inserted Valentine, treasuring it one last time. I know it will be the last time I see it for many years – maybe the last I ever see of it. I trace the scrawling letters that my own hand wrote at the age of five in 1983. I smile at her first note to me, dated 1993.
Ten years.
“We can share this, but don’t throw it out,” she ended her note.
The years pass by in increments of three sentences, on sticky sheets of two by two. Mother’s Day, Christmas, birthdays, the Valentine traveled back and forth between us, until it stopped.
It stopped in 2000, and it is 2010. Those were the years of dating, marriage, babies, houses, life.
The “Me” years.
Ten years.
Forty chances – twenty birthdays, ten Mother’s Days, ten Christmases - all gone.
All chances lost.
Ten years.
We travel on Christmas and the presents get handed out. I watch as my bag of two cards gets passed across the room to her.
She opens the first card. She handles the ornament, she smiles and puts it back in the bag.
She opens the second. I hold my breath. She looks at the Valentine for a long time.
Do you remember?...Read and remember...I cross the room.
She reads through the notes, her eyes fill with tears.
I put my hand on her shoulder as I walk by, and she stands to thank me. We hug and we cry, happy tears.
She sits back down at the table, and opens the first card.
She handles the ornament, she smiles and puts it back in the bag.
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