An older neighbourhood, with 1950’s rancher style houses. Lawns well-kept, lots of trees flourishing, and all of this was tucked away, hidden if you will, from the busy streets just two blocks over. Jake, was not overly enthusiastic, but I think my jubilation moved him. Or, it was my non-stop chattering about the feng shui, and the flow of chi, and blah, blah, blah. I’m sure he just wanted me to stop talking.
Three weeks later, we were the proud owners of our new house. Unpacking some boxes in the kitchen, I came across a folded piece of paper that was stuck under the bottom drawer. I reached into the awkward space, and retrieved it. The paper was not old, not faded or worn, and the creases still young. It looked like something from a small notepad, one you might write your grocery list on. Unfolding it, I notice the writing, or printing, actually a combination of the two, similar to how I write with pen and paper.
I read it once, not thinking too much of it, maybe not understanding. It sat on the counter while I finished unpacking the dishes. It was a warm day, so I opened the kitchen window, which overlooked the back yard. I knew this house had a nice flow, as the gentle breeze made it’s way into the kitchen, and through to the living room. Getting back down on my knees to start on another box, the paper was blown off the counter, striking me on the top of my head. I like to think there are reasons for everything.
Scooting my butt back against the fridge, I began to read it again. This time, more slowly. It read like a novel, so the third time through, I held on to each word, letting them sneak inside me to spread their meaning, to help me understand. The emotions within the words became mine; devastation, fear, betrayal, guilt. I felt the love of this woman for her sons, and the genuine, heartfelt, apology that completed it.
The lady who lived in this house for fifty years, had passed on, and that’s why it had been for sale. I didn’t know the whereabouts of her family, but I knew I had to try to find them. This might have been the last thoughts she wrote down, the last treasured piece of her, lovingly handwritten. A true keepsake. The letter held everything, I imagined a mother would feel, for her children. I grabbed an envelope from one of the drawers, gently folded the letter, and placed it inside, with care.
Writing 101; Day Five Feel free to leave your comments below, they are appreciated.