Serenity’s Soul
February 5, 2010 (At night)
Dear Serenity’s Soul,
Have you ever tried to hold back tears? It is as if sorrow’s heat dries out your throat, and you can feel the ache pound in the center of your neck. You can feel the pressure build up in your eyes, but something inside of you refuses to cry—but why? Why? Because, what good is crying going to do?
It was a silent ride to the unknown. Francis, Mocha, and I had to ride in this old car that at times seemed to want to give up on the way there. It didn’t though. It just kept on going, and Francis kept glancing over at me. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, but I just looked straight a head, because I knew if I looked anywhere else, I would surrender to the moment and the tears would come. The goal was not to cry! Mocha sat quietly in my lap as if to know that is what I needed her to do.
Francis didn’t say anything. She didn’t shatter the silence with words that would immediately drift to the back of my mind and become some distant noise in the background of the moment. She just let the minutes pass, and she allowed the moment to be as it was. That’s just what I needed, not exactly to be comforted at the time, but just for someone to be there and leave the moment alone.
Finally, we arrived at this little, raggedy house that was dirty and looked very much like a shack maybe. It looked like it was just there in the middle of life, not belonging anywhere or to anyone. It was very much an outcast.
Still, there was silence. Francis and I just sat in the car, while she looked at me and I looked at the out-casted house. Suddenly, my eyes drifted back to Francis. She didn’t say anything. She just handed me my mother’s letter. I turned around as much as I could to put Mocha in the back seat, and once I did that—I faced Francis, and I slowly took the letter from her and unfolded it. Immediately, I could hear my mother’s voice through the ink on that sacred piece of notebook paper.
She said:
My dear sweet girl,
I know that you will not understand what is happening, but know that I love you and that I will come back with answers. I have left only for a little while to understand something I cannot yet explain to you. Be patient, and know that what I am doing will mean so much to the both of us. If you’re reading this, it means that Francis has taken you to a little house surrounded by dirt and not much of anything else. This, my precious Monica, is where you were born—this little house. I know it looks like nothing, but you filled that house with love. I remember how your father would hold you so closely to him, and he would talk to you in such a calm whisper. We didn’t have much, but we did have you and you were our whole world. You erased every sorrow we ever had, every bit of darkness turned to light when we looked into your innocent angelic eyes. You were our baby girl. Don’t look at that little house like it’s nothing, because it was everything and it was everything because of you. Keep this letter, Monica, and hold it close because I know that your memories may not be the same as mine…but I want you to understand that there was a time when you lit up your father’s heart and soul with happiness. So when you think of him, and you remember the darkness—know, please know, that there was light.
I love you and I am coming back,
Mama
I could feel the tears building up, but I just couldn’t let them go. I just couldn’t do it. I folded the letter back up, and held it in my hand. I opened the car door and got out. Something in me wanted to feel the ground of this out-casted place. As I got out and stood straight up, I walked a way from the car and towards the house. Nothing moved in that moment. Everything just stood still like it was watching me, watching to see what would happen. I walked towards the door, and just slightly touched it at first. Oh, it felt so…so much a part of me, and I gave it just a little push. It was so old, so fragile it just opened…and there it was….the place where I was born. It had an old smell, and it was dark and gloomy…but in that darkness was a glimpse—a memory of a better time. I was older, and we had moved to the city and I was laughing with my father and he knelt down and said—“I love you baby girl.”
And then I cried.
It was true. In the midst of the darkness, there was some kind of light…I just didn’t remember because the darkness was just so….well, dark. I fell to my knees, and I felt a hand touch me on my back. I looked up and it was Francis holding Mocha.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”
I saw her look around.
“Your mother and father didn’t have much at all, and when they found this little place they were happy. Your father delivered you right here—right here. That always meant so much to him, and he was so proud of you! In a way, the whole thing was some sort of miracle. I happened to stop by the day you were born, and we took you and your mother to the hospital. Your parents were scared, but they loved you….never doubt that.”
I stood up and hugged Francis. We slowly walked back to the car, and I looked back at the house and smiled. It meant so much to me.
When we got back, I put my mother’s letter under my pillow, and that’s where it will stay until she comes back. She said she would come back, and I will hold her to her promise.
Good night,
Monica
