Seven Letters After You

Letter #1

     I never expected you to leave the way you did, and I never expected it so soon. As I deal with these tsunami tides in my eyes, I will attempt to remain sane through these letters. I do apologize if I slip. No words can describe the pain I am feeling.

Here's to Day One of thinking. 

My first letter to my first love. 

     I was born into a privileged family. We never really had much money, but we truly loved each other. My mother and father were of two different races, which was uncommon at the time. Since their love was uncommon, they were often faced with racist remarks and frowns of disapproval. However, they remained strong, and depended on each other for everything. It was true love.

     I was a product of their love.

     They nursed me in their arms and taught me everything they believed I should know. They wanted to protect me from the negativity outside. In their eyes, I was too innocent to be attacked with hurtful words. So they sheltered me. For eleven years to be exact. They were my best friends, my only friends. The only people who kept me company and made me laugh every single day. Sometimes I would come in contact with other children briefly in public locations, but my parents would always be watching over and made sure they didn't say a single word to me.

     Then, they changed.

     My mother was diagnosed with an incurable disease. My father never told me exactly what it was, because I was too afraid to ask. The joyful parents I once knew turned into walking messes. Dark eye bags hung below their eyes, their constant smiles turned into fearful lines plastered on their faces, and my mother lost all the hair on her head. My habits of running to them whenever I found something excitable or interesting faded away. Our interest in life was gone. Though I must give my mother credit for still forcing a smile, just to give me reassurance she was there.

     Sometimes at night, I would hear my mother crying, so I would go into my parents' bedroom. My father would already be by her side holding her while she wept onto his shoulder. I would join in when I was brave enough, and when I wasn't, I would merely cry silently at the sight of them in such pain. I wanted to help, but I didn't know how. I spent all my wishes on hoping they would return to normal, but they never did. Instead, that became my normal for the next two years.

     My life consisted of studying on my own in order to pass examinations, while my mother and father were at the hospital. Home cooked meals were no longer a thing. Everything was either frozen, or store bought. Some days I was too sad to eat, so I settled for a few glasses of water. I always waited for them to come home, but on some occasions, they wouldn't come home for days. I was too afraid to go outside alone, so I would stay inside. When I was done with studying, I would read.
     My life became an endless cycle of insomnia and tired days.

     When I thought things couldn't get any worse, they did.

     My father came home one day and slammed the door open. His eyes were so haunted. They were filled with utter fear and panic. He searched the living room for me, and when his eyes met mine, they scared me so much my bones shivered. He grabbed me by the upper arm without saying a single word, and rushed me out of the house without even locking the front door.

     I knew by the looks of it that something was wrong with my mother.

     I cried quietly as we drove silently to the hospital. When I glanced over, I wasn't alone. Tears had crept down my father's face as well. I remember staring out the window and watching the snowflakes land on the ground around us.

     When we arrived, she was dying.

     I heard the nurses and doctors converse amongst themselves about it. They looked at my father and I with such pity and guilt. They couldn't help her. We all knew it. Machines were attached to her body, seemingly everywhere. Multiple needles were pierced through the back of her hand.

     I don't know how she knew it would be her last moment, but she did. She spent every second valuably. First, she greeted my father, and got to talking immediately. I zoned out and stared at her staring at my father. Her eyes shone with relief and pure love when staring at him. I almost envied the way he made her feel better almost instantly.

     After a few minutes, she called me over to hug her. Her arms were weak unlike before. She used to be able to pick me up and spin me in the air, but in that very moment she struggled to lift her own arms up to hold me. There were countless bruises along her arms, and her veins popped on the surface of her skin.

     She cried, and I did too.
     She said she loved me, and I said I loved her too.
     She apologized for not being a good mother, but I told her she was the best mother anyone could ever ask for.

     Her next words were hauntingly beautiful.

     "You will fall in love with someone the way I did," her voice sounded as fragile as glass. "And when you do, everything before that will make sense."

I was merely thirteen at the time, and I had never even talked to a boy my age. I nodded frantically. We all hugged one last time, before the line went flat.

     Her funeral consisted of four people. My grandparents from my mother's side (which I had never met before), my father, and I. My grandparents merely glanced at me. They didn't speak to me at all. It was obvious I wasn't family to them.

     Mother was cremated, and my father traveled to the ocean alone to scatter her ashes.

     I never understood my mother's last words.

     Not until I met you.

     My father decided homeschooling was no longer an option, mainly because he wanted the house to himself to weep, so he enrolled me into a public school which was a few blocks away from where I lived. I was frightened to be thrown out into the open like that, but I had no choice.

     I was a loner at school. The only people I talked to for the first few weeks were the school staff. The counselor was very nice to me, and showed me how things functioned. I was only thirteen, so I was a quick learner. Luckily, my locker was next to an exit most people didn't use, so I didn't have to worry about facing people.

     On the fourth week, people started noticing me. A few tried conversing with me, but I was far too shy to say much. I kept my head ducked down in class, only speaking when it was completely necessary. My parents' worries about racist remarks didn't come true. There were other mixed kids too, some of which seemed very popular.

     My father never asked me how school was; I barely saw him at all. I would sometimes catch a glimpse of him leaving for his morning walks in the morning. I tried greeting him a few times, and all I got in return were grumbling sounds.

     Remember the first day we met?

     On a warm spring day, while I was walking home and enjoying the budding leaves you tapped my shoulder.

     You came out of nowhere.

     Remember how I jumped and screamed? You immediately backed away with your arms in the air.

     "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!" You immediately said.

     I remember how the sunlight reflected off of your hair that day. I could never forget an image so bright. Everything about you screamed joy: your closet which consisted of mostly white shirts, your constant smiling, the crinkles by your eyes formed by your smile- the list could go on forever.

     At that moment, I didn't know how to react. I stood there dumbfounded, waiting for something to magically happen. You grabbed my hand without permission and shook it. My hand laid in yours and sloppily went along with your handshake. You introduced yourself to me, but I couldn't stop staring at you. I briefly remember saying my name quietly after yours. I couldn't believe that such a handsome boy like you would even be interested in befriending someone like me.

     Remember how you walked me home that day?
     Remember how we found out we lived a couple of houses away from each other?
     I had never even noticed you. And to be quite honest, the day I met you was the first time that something managed to distract me from my mother's death.

      I went to bed that night thinking about you, instead of my mother's coffin on fire.