i’m sorry. sorry for taking up space. sorry for breathing. sorry for being loud or overbearing or rude or brash. sorry i’m stupid and fat and not very polite. sorry i’m not good. enough. too much. just sorry.
how sad is that? seriously, how fucking sad is that?
today we continued our seemingly endless task of going through files and papers. three legal sized cardboard boxes, jammed with papers from the past. every thank you card ever received. christmas letters from 20 years ago. funeral programs from her sister and her parents and friends. tiny photos from 80 years ago ~ her sister holding her in the backyard. a faded picture of the house where she was born. wedding announcements. baby announcements. letters from boot-camp. address lists. medical records. taxi vouchers. church bulletins. 33 cent stamps. knitting patterns. mother’s day cards. accomplishments. gratitudes. awards. her baby book.
and tucked into the baby book was a little handmade book. inside were drawn pictures of “work”, “play” and “rest.”
the cover of the book is the story.
it is poignant and heart-rending as a reflection of what was.
positive and hopeful as it reveals the way of transformation and growth.
much of my life has been lived apologetically small. through pain and sorrow, through grief and life and death, through the years, something shifted.
i held on and refused to let go. and i have a new letter to write.
i know my truth.
i am courageous.
i am wise.
i am stronger than strong.
i am free.
i am me.
p.s. i love you