I haven't been to the beach in a long time. Dishon and I sat on the beach a bit when we were in Puerto Rico, but sitting on the beach isn't the same as being at the beach. Not like how we used to when I was little. What I remember about those beach trips is feeling excited, like the sand was too hot for my toes, and finding out that I could take the heat, feeling like the water was too cold and the jellyfish were too scary, and finding out that my body adjusted to the ocean temperature just fine, and I could avoid the jellyfish. The beach means freedom, relaxation, warmth, fun, walking on a shifting and uncommon, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, sometimes sharp surfaces, and realize that you can adjust faster than you think . . . and experience a kind of timelessness where the sun seems to hang high in the sky forever.
Mommy - my first home . . . my First Lady . . . You had just turned 24 when you gave birth to me. When I was that age, I had been married for a little less than a year and I was about to start graduate school at Boston College. I had decided to become a teacher, and I was also working at Boston College to pay for my tuition. Dishon and I were living on Commonwealth Avenue down the block from the school in a tiny, tiny apartment with a miniature stove and fridge . . . no closet in our bedroom, and our elevator had that old school gate that you had to pull closed before it would run. In your early 20s you are in the midst of deciding things, and becoming, and I wasn't really sure how the chapters of my story would unfold. Did you feel like that, too, then? Excited and terrified? Bold and scared at the same time? Life is like that, huh?Some chapters of our lives have made me hold my breath without noticing at first. I was scared when Daddy called to tell us about your diagnosis. His voice didn't sound right. I've heard him sound like that before. You, too. Something like how it sounded when I found out that Ronnette was gone. It was a little too close to how I sounded when I called to tell yall that Dee Dee was gone. Too close to how the words of your text sounded in my head when you wrote that Benjeem was gone. He said you didn't want to talk. Your voice is like a trumpet - strong, certain, compelling - what am I supposed to do when that sound is muted? What do I hear then? What do I do then? Wait . . . keep listening . . . it'll come back. Not muted, really. Just paused so you could catch your breath. Moms have to put their oxygen masks on first.
When I look back over our stories - individually, and where our lives have intersected - God has been so good! He has made everything beautiful in its time . . . All of our plot lines, valleys and mountains . . . the resolution has always been good, and it always will be.
I was so glad to hear about your prognosis. Felt like I could breathe again. In my heart, I know you'll be just fine. You are my Warrior Queen. Fearless Defender. As the date of your surgery approaches, I pray that your beach day is all that you want it to be - relaxing, full of stories and laughter, connecting and listening and sharing. I hope you have a wonderful, joyful beach day where you not only have fun, but remember that you're stronger than you even remember. Know that I will be there with you in spirit. I always am. As much as I enjoy creating word pictures, there aren't enough words or colors in all the world for me to let you know how much I love you, Mommy.
After I'm all done with camp, and you've recovered from your surgery and returned from your cruise, we need some major hang out time. We have no where near enough pictures together! We must fix that with a bunch of selfies. There's so much I want us to do together. Let's make plans. Let's write. Let's sing. Let's lay around, watch movies, eat cookies and just be. Love always,
💖Baby Girl💋
My love, my Baby girl! Your writing makes my spirit soar! Takes me to wonderful places!!
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