A LETTER TO MY FUTURE DAUGHTER

Stand tall, little one.

Your branches are young but your roots are strong. I know because I tended them, I watered them, I loved them.  We share the same roots, you and I.

Stand tall, little one.

It's okay to cry, but then you must lift your head and dry your tears.  There will be times that you feel your heart will stop beating for the pain, but know that it won't.  You are a survivor and the pain will make you strong.

You will never be what they want.  First they will tell you that you are to quiet, then they will try to silence you.  They will call you saint and sinner, goddess and demon; you can't please them so please don't try.  Please don't try.  You know who you are and you know what sets your soul on fire.  Feed that fire.

You will be rejected and you will be lonely and you will be afraid.  Courage, daughter, and know that you are loved.

Stand tall, little one.

Open your soul to God and He will replace your doubts with assurance, your fears with faith.  You are weak and you are human and you will make mistakes.  Apologize.  There will be those who will define you by your mistakes.  They will tell you that you've run out of chances, that you can't possibly be good enough.  Don't listen.  God is endlessly patient and He will never get frustrated.  He will always be willing to forgive you, to teach you, to bandage your wounds and kiss your forehead.  Remember that He is the only one who loves you more than I.  Trust him fully.  His plan will always yield better results than ours.

Don't ever waste time on those who don't recognize your true value.  They will only hold you back and they don't deserve to share your world.  Don't allow yourself to be mistreated, but be free with your forgiveness.  Remember that those you love are just as human as you.  They will let you down and they will hurt you and that's okay.  Let it go.  Learn from it.  Let yourself grow.  And let them do the same.

Work hard.  Talent alone will get you no where.  If you want something, go out and fight for it.  You are entitled to nothing, so expect nothing.  Your ambition and dedication will be rewarded.  Prioritize.  Keep your vision and perspective.  Don't let yourself get distracted.  Always remember that God and family come first.

Stand tall, little one.  There are great things in store for you.

Love,
Your Mother

Glory

She never had a chance but he gave her one and they were both made out of gold.  They shimmered when they walked and people liked that.  She soaked her feet in holy water and he looked her straight in the eyes and said, "You wreck everything you touch."

"Don't go on vacation," they said.  But it didn't matter because he took the car when they were asleep.

They told her she would never change and she said "I seem to have misplaced my pride."  They called her weak, unworthy, liar, sinner.  She looked up to heaven and asked if it were true and God said, "Blessed, blessed child," and she said "Glory."

He smoked weed in his mom's car and she said, "You forgot to do the dishes."  She was the Relief Society President and everything.

Nobody stuck up for him anymore and they all told his girlfriend that he was a prick but she still loved him.  He bought her a pair of shoes but he never liked it when she wore them.  Everyone cried when he left and they all said that they missed him.  No one really wanted him back though.  He's the kind of guy you love more when he's away.  It really is a shame because he had beautiful eyes.

"You have never felt pain like me," she said.

He wanted to marry her in a velvet dress but she showed him the bruises on her hipbones and said, "How could you do this to me?"

Anthems resonated from his chest and he told her to listen but she said she couldn't hear anything.  She called him weak, unworthy, liar, sinner.

She wrecked him, she did, and seeing those lights on the hill like a flame can break a man.  Twenty five years later he told her daughter, "Your mother broke my heart," and her daughter said, "Glory."

So he looked her straight in the eyes and he said, "You're gonna change the world someday."  She looked up to heaven and asked if it were true and God said, "Blessed, blessed child," and she said, "Glory."

Keep the change, ya filthy animal.

Just put a couple of Lohners together, and that's really all you need for a good time.

nineteen

It's weird how one ordinary, uneventful day can make such a big difference and now you're much too old and much too young all at once when really nothing has changed and you still can't open your eyes and smile at the same time.  The worst kind of wishes are the ones where you don't know what to wish for.  

Please Bless...

I'm freakin' out man.

I'm lying in the dark and I can barely swallow and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about me and I'm not thinking about us because there is no us.  I made sure of that.

But I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about the person I've become, and wondering how I got like this.  And I'm wondering if I really became like this or if I've always been this way, but I've just never had to choose before.  I mean, I guess I've always been easy and I've always been careless but I thought I was still a pretty good person.  So I'm thinking about me.

And I'm freakin' out man.

I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about all the words I didn't say and all the words you didn't say back.  I'm thinking about all of the words I did say and all of the words you still didn't say back.  And I'm wondering if you ever even read my letter or if you just threw it away, and if you are still mad at me or if you just don't care anymore.  But I will probably never know because we don't talk anymore.  And even though I have very little hope at this point, I can't stop myself from wishing that your name would show up on my caller ID.  And the first words I would say would be to ask you if I ever told you about the martini glass next to your name in my contacts and tell you that Leonard totally has a chance.  And the second words I would say would be to tell you that I love you and I am so sorry.

On second thought, maybe I'd better say those in the opposite order.

I'm freakin' out man.

I'm sitting in the dark and my ears are killing me and I'm thinking about you.  I'm thinking about how I want to call you right now, but I won't because I'm still afraid of what you will do even though it can't get any worse than this, but also because I can't generate enough sound to travel past my teeth.  

I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about us even though there is no us. But I wish there were.  Maybe if you could still love me after all that I've done, I could too.  And I'm thinking about how much I want to prove to you that I can be everything that you believed I could be.  Not just for you but for me too.  Even though I will never be a part of your brilliant vision and your radiant future, maybe I can still have a tiny sliver of that for myself.

But fate has a sadistic sense of humor, and timing is everything.

And I don't know what to do about how much I miss your earnest eyes and the map of the world on your bedroom wall, your weird sense of humor, dancing in the gazebo, and spanish music and our growing list of lookout points.  Sandpaper. Talks about God, about science, the color of the mountains and the way the streets start to sparkle in the evening, cannibalism, Finland and topless old ladies, yesterday and tomorrow and the next ten years, and how soft your carpet is.  I miss light saber fights and parfaits and duets at your piano and how I wasn't even mad when you pushed my bare skin against the ice cold metal of your car.

But I'll never get that back will I?

I'm freakin' out man.

Apparently they don't write songs about this.

BEFORE no. 2

It's the day before the end of the world and the sky has made it's peace.

It's the day before the end of the world and tomorrow sits somewhere unseen, an elusive yet inevitable ghost that has haunted our steps for years.

It's the day before the end of the world and we have already proven that our roots are strong enough to battle pain and heartbreak, and we will weather on through the passage of time.  And maybe we're not the same as we were and maybe in 5 years time the bright young things will have forgotten our names

But I'll always believe in you

And I'll always love you and your limitless soul.

The rocks and trees will never forget the feel of our bare footsteps or the way our laughter sounded as the wind carried it away, and I can still see a trail of poetry, like a fingerprint on every surface we've touched, a tangible reminder that we were here and that we were bright and beautiful.

But our childhood is spent and our futures are beckoning, and all we can do is take tentative steps into the darkness ahead of us and pray that the stars will continue to light our way, that the scorching days and perfect nights will never stop coming, and that despite all this time and distance, our clumsy scrawling poetry will be enough to hold us together.  But I know that this is never-ending and we will never run out of ink, that as long as the sun and moon keep switching places in the sky, we're gonna be alright.

It's the day before the end of the world and I'm not afraid to die.

It's the day before the beginning of the world and I pinky promise to never let you go.

"To die would be and awfully big adventure."

All my love,

Shug

Solitary

Your toes don't go first, like you always thought they would.  Your stomach does.  Like, one day it's there, and the next day, it's just... gone. And no one really notices at first because your shirt covers it, so it's only embarrassing when you change for P.E.

Then a few months later you look down halfway through the day and you realize that your elbows are full of holes, and the holes are getting bigger.  Eventually they're gone too.

Your knees, your heels, nine of your fingers.  The left pinky finger with the scar on it takes a little bit longer but eventually that one dissolves too.  Finally your toes.  Piece by piece you continue to disappear.

You really get worried when the pace picks up. You're gaining at least one hole per day now, and people have stopped noticing the holes because they look right through them now.  If they don't see you, how are they supposed to notice that you're full of holes?

Your shins, your calves, your thighs, your forearms.  The soles of your feet stuck around for a while but they're gone now.

You cry the day your hip bones and collar bones fade out.  "This," you say, "this is as bad as it gets."

But the next day you can no longer speak.  Your tongue, your teeth, your beautiful lips, all gone.

For a while your eyes and ears, hear and mind are still there.  And it's painful because you can see and hear so much excitement and you can want it and you can miss it and you can feel so alone and think about all the people that used to see you, but you can't say anything because you don't have a voice, so you just sit there screaming in your head, and even after your ears disappear you can still hear yourself scream.

The last thing to go is your heart.  It's tragically beautiful actually, this heart just beating.  Pumping away, just aching as it sends blood to this invisible body, but that doesn't last too long.

Your heart goes, just like the rest of you.

A letter to our ruler, lord of kings and beggars, that beastly tyrant: FEAR.

I'm like, so over it.

I'm done with the constant worrying, the lack of sleep, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

You said that you could help us.  You promised you would protect us.  That you would protect me.

"Listen to me," you said.

"Trust me," you said.

Well I listened.  You couldn't help.  You didn't protect me.

You built walls: strong protective walls.  You locked up my heart and buried it deep where no one can touch it.  You bottled up my passions and stored them in a cool, dry, secure place.  You whitewashed my vulnerabilities and disguised them with hanging curtains and still lifes.  You gave me guidelines and rule books, lists of  approved words and actions, checks and balances, dos and don'ts, and I studied them until my eyes burned but I never could get the hang of them.  You put deadbolts on all my doors and you said, "Look.  You're safe now."

But every second I spent in my bulletproof, steel plated stronghold wore away my happiness and my self-esteem.  I watched as my sense of wonder turned translucent and ultimately disappeared.

And then loneliness crept in, filling the stale, empty air around me, and discontent started pawing at my ankles.

You didn't protect me.  You crippled me.

With you around every dream turns to a nightmare, and my ambitions are crushed with doubts and what-ifs.  When you're around it's hard to get up in the morning and harder to go to sleep at night.  Any thought of growth is immediately shut down.  Risks are discouraged; creativity is banned.

"But you didn't get hurt," you told me, "I thought that's what you wanted."

I don't want to be safe.  I just want to be real.

Vive la Révolution

Humans... Think they own everything...

You don't own the moon.

You don't own the moon and I don't own the stars in the sky or the reflection of the city lights on the lake.  We don't own midnight drives or Walmart or the pond by the silos.

You don't own stupidity and I don't own pain, and I kept telling you that kisses aren't games, people aren't toys.  So when did I start playing?

11:11 wishes and 5 years time don't belong to either of us but you own a piece of the last two years of my life, and I've had the same coloring book picture of Lando hanging on my wall since the only date we've ever been on.

I don't own the sunset and we don't own the XX or that spot in Alpine and everyone makes out in the back seat, but we are different just because we're us.  And even though you've been missing for quite a while, I keep forgetting you ever left, or that you ever will again.

And I don't own crazy, but I'm taking this crazy chance on you and trading my summer and the next two years for a couple of weeks and a promise of later.  We've waited two years already, I bet we can wait another two.

And if, in 5 years time, we are sitting together on a hill, watching the city at night, I know I'll feel like everything belongs to us.

Another list of sorts

Short hair can hold as many insecurities as long hair.

Be careful of people; you never know how easily they bruise.

Nothing lasts forever.  That is both a good thing and a bad thing.

Sandpaper.

If you don't know what you want, you're never going to get it.

Timing is everything.

No matter how well you think you know a person, they will still surprise you.

Everyone is crazier than you think.

My name is Lincoln Burrows and I did not kill the vice president's brother.

I dreamed last night that you were mine, and you kissed my fingertips and my forehead, and your hair smelled like summertime, and in my dream everything was the way I had always felt that it should be.

But even dreams don't have happy endings, and sure enough, you began to change.  Your eyes stopped seeing me and the summer smell of your hair started to fade.  And then suddenly she was there.  I could hear her ghost in the way you said my name and feel her shadow in the tiny beads of sweat on the nape of your neck and the palms of my hands, dripping onto my hair, my clothes, my skin, down my chest and into my belly button.

And then every thing froze.  The ground frosted over and my toes turned blue, my fingers turned blue, my lips turned blue, and the clocks forgot to move.

So I did the only thing I knew how.  I opened my eyes.

I really hope you read this.

The problem is that I don't need someone who I know will be there if some huge crisis happens.  I don't need someone that I know will make time if I have no one else who can save me.

I need someone who will be there every day, any second.  Someone who says everything, no filters or evasions.  Because honestly the huge crisis is that I have been left behind and abandoned and there is no one left to save me.  And I so wish you were the one who is always there, but you haven't been that person for quite some time now, and it's no wonder I feel betrayed.

And tonight ended well but that can't fix the fact that I talk about you way too much for someone that I don't even talk to anymore, and that I still need you way more than you will ever need me.

So if I am important to you at all, please show me, because this rope is fraying fast, and my hands are aching from gripping so tightly.  I need you to pull me up.


You pinky promised.

LOVE

I can't actually hang out with you without hating you by the end.  Also I will probably never stop listening to this song.

This is so homewrecker.

Tree Rings

Maybe a little, maybe a lot.

Maybe a four year old princess with a box of crayons, glitter on her fingernails, and flowers in her hair.

Maybe a seven year old girl with a blue ink stain on her favorite t-shirt who could read an entire Harry Potter book in a day.

Maybe a nine year old who was already sitting on a bench with Phyllis, eating ice cream and planning wild adventures.

Maybe a quiet twelve year old nobody afraid to talk in class, realizing that self-assurance would be a lot more difficult from here on out.

Maybe a skinny fourteen year old dancer waiting to catch up to the rest of the girls her age and wild about a boy she was barely even friends with.

Maybe a sixteen year old blogger impatient for her first kiss and her driver's license, eating peanut butter sandwiches, and sharing coke and m&ms with a boy who would never quite relinquish his hold on her.

Maybe they're all stacked like tree rings inside of an nostalgic eighteen year old who never really hated glitter.  

A girl with callused feet and a blistered heart, impatient fingers and an impossible dream.  A girl who is far too familiar with the sharp, lingering sting of rejection and is afraid that she will never be enough.  A girl with deep roots and tentative branches, who will never stop looking for miracles.

A girl who never lost touch with with that four year old princess who believed in magic.

It won't be long now

There are seven different colors of paint on my bedroom walls.  The downstairs bathroom has been halfway finished for two years now and we've been meaning to replace the broken light in the family room since I was in middle school.

A big part of me is worried that I will never even finish this blog post because I come from a noble tradition of beginners with a distinct knack for never finishing.

See, my daddy is a dreamer who is stuck behind a desk so that I can have a car to drive to work every day and my sister can spend 15 hours a week playing the cello.

My dad has a hundred apps that will never be built because by the time he gets home from work every day he is sick of coding.

He has a novel written in his head that will never live and breathe on the printed page because developing novels are a needy bunch and he already has six children to take care of.

But someday is always just around the corner and my dad has never stopped talking to me about his self-sufficient greenhouse, his ocean-front property with the private boat dock, or his lawn chair on the beach.

And despite the unfinished basement, I've never stopped believing in his plans.

Phyllis once called me the Believer and I never realized how true it was until she put it into words.

I believe in the future.

I do believe in miracles.

And even though it seems impossible, I honestly believe that one day we'll arrive and all of our dreams will begin to unfold and we'll finally catch up to our elusive green lights.

Phyllis and the Cardinal and Peyton and the Golden Girl will go out to lunch in quaint french cafes and my dad and I will sit on our lawn chairs and watch the waves.  My map of the world will fill to the brim with been-there-pins

and I'll finish this blog post.