A Letter of Goodbye

How could I be so foolish?  My heart races and I am unable to catch it, before the breathless words, “I think I have the wrong e-mail address.”  A pregnant pause, and then, “No.  No you didn’t.  I received your e-mail last night, and it was really well written- the way you had those questions, I could really get into that…  But, Maile, I spoke to your father- and he doesn’t want for me to talk to you.  I love you, Honey…  Goodbye.”

I knew before the sentence was completed.  I knew before I called, he would say no.  What a pathetic beggar I am.  I am okay without the sentiment.  I am okay without the interaction.  I simply wanted to understand my history.  I go to the doctor and explain dryly that I have no background.  I am chased by a ghost that requires acknowledgment.

It would be simpler to experience the lead of a no. 2 pencil as a mathematician hastily pencils me into existence as a quadratic equation.  And perhaps, as some believe, the most simplistic expression is numerical.  But then, think for a moment, about how an equation would intrinsically ache with a lack of dual equality.

I am Catholic.  I pray my God loves me in that complete and utter way that a child longs to be desired.  I am no longer a child.  I am no longer an idealist with poor impulse control.  I am a woman.  I am the woman that bled, ostracized from society, and hoped that in the singular touch of a sandal strap that The God Man would heal her.  And he did.  He did.  But she was called out, “Who touched me?”

I am a realist who hopes.  I will not be defined by the pain.  I will not be eaten, (what a vulgar way to write “consume”- but more precise).  It hurts.  I wake up in the morning and know that part of me is missing.  I have lived with the ache so long, that it has become a dull soul throb.  I was naïve, I thought that names and dates would ease the throbbing.

I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia a few years ago.  The muscular pain is a cockle burr in comparison to the incessant sad- diagnosed as bipolar.  How ridiculous is this time I live in.  I have a card box of diagnoses, and ultimately they are inadequate.  As everything is simply a result of life.  My Life. 

I accept it.  It is all necessary.  Without it my girls would not be.  Without it I would not understand the need for forgiveness.  Without all of this life and sorrow I would have flawless character and in my pride would not need my God. 

We are beautiful.  Kaleidoscope beautiful.  When I was a child I would stand on these black rocks that littered the beach of the northern pacific coast, and I would place my foot next to the sea anemone that swayed in the water and I would watch as the sun melted into the ocean.  That was when I was convinced that the sun followed only me and that I had a place in this world, that followed some sort of linear, familial avenue.  He is beautiful, my father, and she is, my mother, and you are, my uncle.  It is our utter misfortune that we are human and therefore suffer from the human malaise of imperfection.  I forgive all of it, even though I don’t understand it- much like the Trinity.  And beg, even though I loathe the word, I beg my God that my father and mother and family that isn’t family will love me in Heaven.

I am a good woman.  And my children are quintessential, exemplary in the honesty of their goodness.  I know that some of what I am is a result of inherent attributes.  I still believe that love is superlative to money, and know that he would probably still bang the phone as he attempted to educate me.  But it’s okay.  I have his thighs and coloring.  I have his eyes, which reminded me of my grandmother’s eyes from a once possessed black and white photograph.  I have his height, or lack thereof.  I have my mother’s hair, and face-eating smile.  I have the length of her fingers.  I am obsessive in pursuit of cleanliness as well as profundity.  I don’t quit.  I don’t stop hoping.  My uncle- I am regretful that we will not know each other.  I am regretful that I will never be able to put the little girl inside me completely to rest until I make my way to Heaven.  I used to sit up, waiting, in my grandparents’ home on the window seat in the room we occupied… waiting for my parents.  I would watch the moon and tell myself not to be scared. 

The imperfection of humanity.  The cyclical nature of relationships.  In this- I think I have improved.  I met the love of my life when I was eighteen and disillusioned with love.  And he is more my love now, after our failures than before.  Our love became even greater when forgiveness was a prerequisite to its continuation.  I hope you look at the photos and see us.  Because the singular dimension presented cannot confine the amazing nature of our souls.  Love is a choice, not a fleeting sentiment.  I will love my father and my mother, and you.  I will pray for you all.  I will pray that St. Michael protects your bodies, minds, and souls.

And maybe, when my children are older...  Perhaps when my degree has been pasted in a memory-keeper, and my hair is more gray than brown and all of the lines that flickered across my face over the years have carved their places… perhaps he’ll want me then.  But it will be irrelevant.  Because I still would have spent my life loving him regardless.