This is the letter you will probably never get to read. Unless some ass shows this to you without my permission, within our lifetimes or when I’ve passed, whichever comes first.
I’d like to thank you for having me. Thank you for spending fourteen hours in labor, in patience and prayer, just so I can see daylight. I do not know the whole story, but understand that circumstances then weren’t easy. Circumstances aren’t easy now, but you have always been tough.
Thank you for teaching me to pray: to just keep praying and asking and praying some more. For teaching me the rosary — by bits and extended; I enjoy the litany the most — as well as Latin prayers. For showing me how to rest during long parts of kneeling during prayers. For making reading the Bible enjoyable with that colorful hardbound (it still remains one of the most precious books I have had). For giving me the sleeping St. Joseph (who really just sleeps here). Thank you for showing me that there is no room for doubting your faith, only persevering in it. That somehow, God will always pull you through. You see, it’s a valuable lesson now.
Despite this faith, I do wish our life has been different. That our circumstances are not as reliant on this faith, that it was easier.
You keep on keeping on, from the day you had me and until now, even when we don’t talk, I know you struggle (especially because Papa has gotten extra kulit) and yet you strive.
I wish I had your strength, Ma. I’m lucky enough to get the warmth of your hands (no wonder my palms sweat), but I wish I have the same toughness as your heart. Tough, but not impenetrable. Tough, but still able to care.
I run on autopilot sometimes, Ma. You probably notice. I seem apathetic. At some point, I guess I am.
I wish you had told me more about how cruel this world is. I wish we had talked about how people use you and betray you eventually. I wish I had the guts to run to you after a long day in school or work or life in general and cry because I feel different. I try, I’m cool, but I’m not like them. Somehow, someone always breaks your heart. And this world is unkind. Is this why you turn to prayers, Ma?
You will probably not get to read this letter, not in our lifetimes, because I’m fractured, Ma, and I don’t want you to ever think that you failed. You did what you could. You are doing what you can. Loving me is not easy. I’m wired this way, and it’s not your fault. There are more pressing matters on hand.
You worry about everyone else, and so I keep the darkest ones to myself: me being tempted by the razor in the bathroom, just hours before I’m due to some coverage. Me having the urge to stay in the middle of the road at night when a truck is about to pass by. Or me covering my face with a pillow as long and hard as I can, wishing to knock the breath out of myself.
The temptations so far have failed. Reflex. When I’m about to go out of breath, I realize it’s the wrong idea. Holding the razor, I realized I was gonna be late for work. In the middle of the road, I realize I wanted to eat the chips I had in hand more than I wanted to get hit by the truck.
Maybe I’m afraid to go, too, because it’s another way to let you down. I’ve already done that enough.
In many ways I long for you. I know you feel the same way, for every mother figure I found and sought, for every story you know I am hiding but will not tell (unless I ended up at the ER, in that case I feel the need to tell you while I’m there, or afterwards, just for heads-up), with every text message you sent that went unanswered.
Whenever you talk about me as a child, it’s always with fondness and longing and it pains me more than anything because you know, I wish I just went back to that, too. That kid seemed happy, circumstances considered. And that kid was there for you. That kid you took everywhere, that child who kicked ass in school and did work on her own just to show you that she could.
That child who told you everything.
I wish I could be that child again, because I long for you, Ma.
But alas, here we are. We’re both getting old, and I hope as the months pass, I will be able to make things easier for you — for your warm hands, with joints that now ache; for your feet, constantly tired with walking; for your head, which often hurts with worry. I wish I could give you better, better, better. While I am uncertain — as you see, Ma, I am a mess — know that I try. I work hard for it. And let’s all hope sleeping St. Joseph actually gets to my prayers because it has been too damn long.
Thank you for remembering the best of me, choosing to see me in that light, and embracing what little you know about my worst.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
"So if you don't wanna score a nice corner office, then why do you wanna go to Harvard? ... Look, the pressure at Harvard Law is inhuman. Everyone there is a genius and a killer. If you can't even give a reason —"
"Because I wanna do something important."
"What's Harvard got to do with that?"
"Well, I think to do good, you have to be good. Maybe the best? The bad guys, they have all the help that they need. But regular people, they have to settle for whoever they can get. And usually it's no one, and..."
"Okay, I'm going to give you a piece of advice, and I want you to listen closely, because you're not going to hear it from your parents. Stephanie McCord..."
"Okay...?"
"If you wanna do good, you gotta be prepared to do bad. To be canny and watchful and mean, so when the bad guys come, you know just where to stick the knife. Because it is a fight to the death. And that is the only language they understand."
"I don't believe that."
"You will."
I cannot stop listening to this. This mash-up is beautiful.
Jeremy Jordan & Laura Osnes
“Ten Minutes Ago” (Cinderella) x “Next Ten Minutes” (The Last Five Years)
gummygunk
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
