MY ACCOUNT

December 23

Hi mum,
 

I’m not sure if you’d ever heard this story… I heard it once many years ago, but it’s heavy on my mind today.

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It’s an old tale that says that all life on land first came from the sea, formed from salt and mineral and water. These primordial elements were combined to give our bodies power – make us electric.

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The tale says that with the bold expansion to life on land, we were given a gift: the gift of emotion. But this wasn’t just any gift, given for the sake of it. It was a gift of supreme guidance. And to ensure that we could understand this guidance, the emotions were tied to our very beings, to the elements that made us.

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Mirth - laughter, joy, and love - could make us weep the water that makes us, an overflowing of the love and belonging we come from. It evoked such a pure feeling because it was a connection to origin, guiding us to more of those experiences.

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Wrath - anger, jealousy, and malice - could make our hearts cold and hard, like the mineral of rocks from which we come, eventually spreading through our every molecule to turn us into stone. A warning that we could become immovable.

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Despair - worry, sorrow, and grief - could pull the salt from our bones, slowly gathering in our throat, ready to be released in tears, or threatening to suffocate us in acridity. Such was the power of what we could feel.

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Despair struck me, especially, when I heard this tale the first time. The power of salt. And it’s true. Because you know that lump you get in your throat when you’re about to cry? All these years, I’ve been choking on it.

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Because I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t process, I couldn’t grieve.

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Every year, this day is the hardest for me. But this year is the hardest yet. Because it’s time to accept what is.

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Today marks 19 years since I last saw you.

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So many months ago, when Nora pushed me to start writing to you, I think I was expecting or… I don’t even know precisely what… hoping, maybe? Hoping for some kind of resolution.

Today it feels like that hope is gone, replaced by reluctant acceptance. That I have to move on. I have to let you go.

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When I look back on things now, especially after this year, I can see that I placed a lot of blame on you. Misplaced, I should say.

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Because it wasn’t your fault that I didn’t make friends, or connections, or a life for myself. It wasn’t because of how you were, or because of our nomadic lifestyle.

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I just wanted to blame you. Because that was easier than admitting that I spent 19 years in denial.

Denial over what happened all those years ago. Did I think I’d be able to move on if I just walked away from it, pretended like it hadn’t happened?

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I feel foolish about it now, looking back. And sorry, that I spent all this time being mad at you, when I was really mad at me. Especially when it should have been me driving that night.

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I finally asked Lou how she knew about the food truck, when we’d never reached this far. She said she read about it in the papers on Christmas day. She suspects that’s why so many others may not know about it at all, because the story came out on Christmas day.

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She says it’s because of that accident that that highway is always heavily salted in winter now.

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I can still remember waking up in the back of the truck, lights flashing in my eyes, paramedics around me. When I called out for you and they turned their heads away, I knew.

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What happened after that is a bit hazier.

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After I was released from the hospital the next evening, I wandered around the town – this town, actually. It was dead quiet, and already dark out, even though it was just around 4 pm. No one was out.

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Then I heard laughter, coming from a house nearby. I remember inching nearer, curious. Through the window, I saw a large group, probably friends and family, sitting around a table. It was Christmas Eve.

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I didn’t even have a place to go. The truck was taken to a repair shop but wouldn’t be fixed for a while because of the holidays.

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And right then, looking at that family in their home, safe and together, I was mad at you. Mad at you for leaving me in this world alone, mad at you for leaving me without an anchor, and mad at you for talking me into letting you drive that night when it was my turn to. Maybe if I’d insisted, I wouldn’t be writing this letter right now.

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Worst of all, I know you would have accepted my anger. You would have accepted the blame that was never yours to take.

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I miss you, mom.

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You were my best friend, my whole world. And in one swift moment, I had lost both.

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I’m glad that you weren’t here to see how I hid from life after that. I know that would have saddened you, disappointed you.

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But I feel ready now, mom. To live life, to make you proud, and to be a better type of anchor for Nora.

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There’s one more thing that I need to say, that I never said before, that I never appreciated before.

Thank you. Thank you for giving me a life of adventure, for being a mother I loved and cherished and admired. Thank you for being my best friend. Thank you for a life that felt full and exciting. For showing me how fun life can be.

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And thank you, even now, for inspiring me to pursue adventure, even if it’s a more anchored adventure.

 

 

I love you, mom. Now and always.

 

Your Beatrix