To You That Waits Patiently On Me Who Is Weary
Well, Nehs and I are at it again, and this time, we brought Trip along for the ride. Aren't we kind? I thought so, too. :)
Anyway, this sort of just rolled on out without much prior planning. After the core of it was down, I went back through and edited and added. I rather like the result, and yes, the sender and the receiver are given ambiguous names. Deal with that how you see fit.
Prompt found here: 3. "I just want to go back there."
Happy reading!
Addison,
Funny as it may seem, I’m writing you a letter. You know my moods, or ought to. Goodness knows you pick on them more than most anyone. Pick up on them more, too. Regardless, my funny mood has forced my hand, so here I sit, writing you a letter. I’ll probably call later and tell you everything in this letter, making reading it pointless, but I’m writing you a letter that you’d better read, so read.
It is November, and the chill outside is light, hardly requiring the heavy, grey coat I’m wearing, but I always preferred being prepared over not. I told myself I could take off the coat, though I knew I wouldn’t. I’m just that way. Stubborn, you might say. My father said I was “jus’ born thi’-headed and weren’t nothing ta be done fer me.” I was willing to believe anything he told me in that heavy accent.
Mother was the same.
They met back about the time father started college. Mother’d been working as a secretary for going on three years by the time pop entered as a freshman. She called him “old eighteen” on account of his maturity. I never knew my father to be mature, but mother swears by it. I think maybe mother’s just immature. Or a bad judge of character. Either way, it didn’t take long for my father—tall and handsome with old money and sly charm—to knock Mamma off her workers feet. Mamma hasn’t worked a day since the wedding—hasn’t worked serious since the day he asked her to marry him. “Too pickled to feel a paper cut,” Aunt Clare would say.
April 4th, 1972, Pop got down on one knee out beneath a special engagement tree on campus, really just a white oak tied up with history, and Mamma said he was confident enough for the both of them; also said she was married before she knew she’d said “yes,” but that was just his way. Pop’s the kind of man quick enough to talk you into something long before you know neither what is was nor how you felt about it.
All this is quite the digression from what I’ve been trying to say. Forgive me, Addison, but some sentences won’t ever write themselves short of reliving the past—painful though such memories may be. I’d like to say you could come up and visit—I’d like it so much!—but things are not well. With Pop dead just a few months, Mamma still hasn’t recovered, and certainly not so much as for a visit from you.
Though, to say I don’t wish you were here would be a lie. I wish you were here daily. You haunt me minute-by-minute. Not that I mind, but if you could keep yourself to yourself while I’m around mother, it would be appreciated. That said, I’m not yet so delusional as to think you can control such things. Yet being the keyword.
I miss your smile, by the way. Save a few dimples for me, would you?
Alice is starting to love crayons; thankfully she hasn’t decided they’re food. She’s not quite so chubby anymore, either, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’ll miss my little Michelin baby someday, I know that much. I’ll send a picture along soon.
And I know I have no right to ask, trust me, but could you stop by Ginger’s store and let her know about Alice? I couldn’t bring myself to call her, but she deserves some information.
My brother called yesterday; even asked about you, if you’ll believe it. I didn’t. He talks in such circles around me anymore. I don’t know if he’s Jekyll or Hyde; not that it matters. Well it does, but I’m trying to let go of the things I cannot change. With the exception of you, of course. Some changes aren’t worth the sacrifices.
I’d wink at you here, just so you know.
Earlier I tried heading down to the grocer, but the stores close for the most mundane of reasons here. Flash flood this, so-and-so’s birthday that, in honor of The Great Pumpkin, etc. You’d probably like it here, small as it is. It’d fit you as well as I do. Something to look forward to, maybe? Hopefully.
I’ve gotten this far, yet I think I’ve forgotten how to really write a letter. I’m rambling, aren’t I? But that doesn’t change from letter to phone call to in-person. If there’s a way to ramble it, I find that way. I hope you find that endearing, really I do.
Anyway, I’ve got to run. Alice will be up from her nap anytime now, and Mamma’s in no condition to handle her. She’ll barely look at even me most days. Says I took after Pop too much. Much as I hate to admit it, I think she means it as an insult. She says it as such, anyway. A broken and lonely heart can make an insult of even a “good morning,” however, so I don’t take too much offense.
If I could sneak you here, babe, I would. You’re beginning to feel a little like my guilty pleasure, but I’m okay with that if you are. I’d love even more to just come back there to you, and after a few more days, don’t be surprised to find me and little Alice standing at your doorstep with dark circles and pleading eyes. Please let us in should that time come.
Your Tomorrow,
Taylor
P.S. Alice asked about you this morning. Mamma almost fainted, but I smiled, probably a bit too widely and happily if Mamma’s look was anything to go by. Alice wanted an answer, though, going so far as to tug at my sleeve when I wasn’t quick enough for her. She still struggles around her “r’s,” but we’re working on that. It’s sweet to know she misses you, too.
