The Letters: Part 2

Now I’ve cried.

Now, it’s time for my letter.

I remember the time you told me about white lies. I didn’t brush my hair before the ballet we went to go see. You knew how much I hated brushing my hair. It hurt so bad. You knew I didn’t brush my hair, but you let me go without brushing it anyway.

We went. I remember we were up on the balcony. I wore a black dress with red flowers on it. My hair… was matted, I’m pretty sure. I must have been 4 or 5. When we got home, I started to cry. I felt guilty. You took me to the bathroom, yours and dad’s, and brushed my hair. It hurt like hell. I cried a lot. You told me that what I had done was a white lie.

I remember dancing. A lot of dancing. In our basement studios. At the dance studios you worked. At church. There was always dancing.

I remember decorating Christmas cookies. Lots of Christmas cookies. Dancing around to Christmas music.

I remember going to get my ears pierced. I’ve told that story many times. You always told us we couldn’t until we were 16 because that’s when you did. One day, I asked you, randomly. You said yes. I was so shocked. I must have been 8 or 9.

I remember my 10th Birthday. My “Golden” Birthday. We made a big deal out of it. I’m sad it was the last one I had with you.

So much has happened since then.

I am an adult.

I sure as hell don’t feel like one.

I know a lot of who I am today is because of you. Your life and your death. It has shaped me.

I want to share memories.

I want to find that damned journal, the last gift you gave me.

I want so much out of life.

Maybe I shouldn’t give up just yet.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s