Serenity’s Soul
February 5, 2010
Dear Serenity’s Soul,
I woke up this morning expecting to see what my mother wanted me to see, but I have learned never to depend on my expectations. I woke up, and my mother was gone. I thought that maybe she had gone into town to do some work, but when I looked in our closet—some of her clothes were gone. I knew then, that wherever she was, she planned to stay there for a while. I looked around our room for a letter. I mean, when you leave someone, you leave a letter right? I didn’t see a letter anywhere, so I walked into the kitchen. Francis was sitting at the table drinking coffee.
“Good morning, Monica.” She said with this vibrant smile on her face. I was frustrated because I didn’t know what was going on, but I couldn’t take it out on Francis. She was much too innocent.
“Good morning, Francis.”
“The ladies have gone out for today—each doing their own thing.”
“And my mother?”
It was that question that caused Francis to put down her cup of coffee and take a deep breath.
“Your mother will be back soon.”
That answer was unacceptable.
“But she left. She was supposed to show me something, and she left without saying good-bye.”
“Well, Dear, your mother was out working in the garden very early this morning when she suddenly came into the house and said that she had to leave, that someone was here and that she simply had to go—just for a little while. Before she left, she did take the time to write you a letter, and she asked me to take you to this place.”
I have always hated being confused. Confusion scrambles up your thought process and turns it into this big mushy mess of chaos.
“I’m confused, Francis! Who was here? Why did she have to leave?”
Suddenly, Francis had this blank stare in her eyes, one that seemed to want to help me but something was holding her back.
“Your mother asked me not to tell you these things yet. She wants to be the one, but she said she must first….”
Then she stopped.
“She must first what, Francis? What? Just tell me.”
“Dear, if only I could, but it is not my place. She is your mother, and she has not left you. She is putting the pieces of this puzzle together, and it is difficult for her to do this. She has to face her past—and that, sweet Monica, is what came to get her. Now, you go and get yourself ready. I will take you to the place that your mother wanted you to see, and I will hand you her letter there.”
I did as I was instructed, and I tell you, I am hurt and afraid. Why must this happen to me, I wonder? What did I ever do to deserve this mystery of a life? Why do I feel like some pawn in a chess game, the least of all on the board of life?
Anyway, I have to go to this unknown place—this place that somehow fits into this puzzle—this puzzle filled with scrambled pieces of a stubborn mystery. I have to go.
Monica
