celestial correspondence

Mumma dear,

Today is the day you left me, precisely one year ago. I held your hand as you cried in pain and looked on as the Lord finally brought you peace and took you in the wee hours of that cold December morning. I cannot describe the torment those last few images have brought me over the past 365 days... the agony of watching my mother, the strongest, bravest, most encouraging soul I have ever known, finally succumb to the misery and cancer that ravaged her body. I was not ready for you to go, Ma. I was looking forward to the years of sagacious parenting advice you would have provided, even to the playful "I told you so" when I wind up with teenagers as bratty as I was. I was hoping to make you smile when I finally bring home the Ivy League degree this May, just like I have dreamed about since I was a little girl. I could have used your support while I pulled those all-nighters this autumn and when I had my heart ripped to pieces this past spring. I still need your help attempting to piece together this wacky family of ours, and trying to figure out my nonsensical, silly little life. I miss the sound of your voice on the other end of the phone every single day... I wish you didn't have to go, Mum; then I would not be stuck here, desperately trying to make you proud with the knowledge that I will never have the satisfaction of knowing whether or not I was successful... I wish I could believe everyone when they say that "it gets better with time," but I know that better really just means numb. Your absence will never feel right to me, and I never want it to...

We went to the cemetery today, all of us, to visit your grave. I was hoping to feel something, some sort of warmth or comfort, but really I felt nothing. Then I realized how silly I was for expecting to find you there. You are not trapped in that box six feet under the ground. You are in the snow. You are in the rain. You are in the grass under my toes and the crisp, fresh air that fills my lungs. As much as I crave your warm embrace, your strong, worn hands holding mine, your striking, resonant laughter filling the silent, lonely spaces, I remembered today how much you are woven into the fabric of my very being, how your love permeates the world in which I walk...

I will always miss you, Mumma, and nothing can fill the hole in my heart hollowed out by your absence; but wherever you are now, happy and free, I pray that you will feel how much I love you, and how anxiously I await our reunion.

You are missed. You are loved. Forever and ever.

Your daughter,

Jenna Leigh

scalded.

I find it funny how we swear we will learn from life's little lessons only to find ourselves years later, still caught in the same bad routines we've always followed... hence the maxims "old habits die hard" and "you can't teach an old dog new tricks." I assuredly am no exception to the rule, but I am also no dog and certainly not an old one. So why don't I learn? I found myself sitting here, in the crowded common room of the Graduate School of Education, stuck in a terribly embarrassing, depressing moment of self-realization. When I disclose the contents of this revelation you are going to laugh at its triviality, but I must insist that it was an earth-shattering experience for me. I recall the words of a poem written at a very painful time in my life...

untitled. 

the first sip of tea scalds my mouth

and i feel my tongue go numb.

deadened. senseless. 

if only i had waited, delayed gratification just this once maybe 

the taste would linger still. 

but i fall in love so fast so hard 

and act on impulse every time 

ready to taste something that isn't quite ready for me yet. 

senses dulled, burnt and scarred, 

i will remember to wait next time. 

i will never forget to wait 

again.

As I sit here, with my poor, rueful little tongue throbbing with pain, scorched by the hot tea I carelessly quaffed just moments ago, I am reminded of these words... What happened to never forgetting to wait? Admittedly, this poem was not written for the sole purpose of expressing frustration over my hastiness in imbibing piping hot beverages (though I am guilty as charged), in fact, that was a moot point in the overall meaning... but it is a sharp, cruel reminder that I seem trapped in a self that does not satisfy me. Why am I yet trussed to these undesirable peculiarities, these seemingly inevitable blunders stuck on repeat? I refuse to believe that I am constrained by the person I do not want to be... so why do I lay here still, heavy with the weight of my fetters? Why am I bound by these inexorable chains? I am tired and weary of old patterns, these pathetic tendencies. I need a new getaway plan, the first measure of which is to find an escape artist for an accomplice. Who's in?

and she's too broken to fix so let's burn this girl down.

What a mess. I cannot pretend to be doing alright. I think I am quite a disaster, actually. As the stress of finals piles on and the lack of sleep sets in, I am becoming more and more conscious of my mother's absence and of all the pain that has woven itself through the fabric of this year. The tension and distress tug at the hem of my dress; they bite at my cheeks in the cold and wake me in the midst of the night... I miss her. I miss my family. I miss people. I miss you. School has me living the life of a recluse. I have always been a bit of hermit but never as much as I am now. I am thankful for the things that I have learned this term, and for the opportunity to study at such a fine institution, but I am desperate for the upcoming recess. I need to see the ones I love, to experience their warmth, to feel my purpose. I only wish that she could be there.

I need encouragement. Just two more weeks! Why do I feel so overwhelmed? I know that I can do this. I suppose I just wish I had a hand to hold. Your hand. Fingers interlaced. Send me your love. I need you more than ever.

Saturday Night's Alright

It's Saturday night and I am happy as a clam. It is snowing outside and I am bundled up on the couch devouring a bowl of steamed dumplings and a hot cup of tea. Personally, I think that Chinese dumplings are just about one of the most amazing creations in the world. I admittedly prefer the fried ones but I have been sticking to steamed lately to be a bit healthier. I have never had them better than when I was in Rome, but I am enjoying these ones from the restaurant down the block (and, if you live further north, there is a great little place in Boston's Chinatown called Shanghai... the food is quite good and it's always entertaining when the karaoke bar is open upstairs).

I just returned from braving the storm to pick up my fare and I must say that it is absolutely beautiful out. Though quite brisk, the feeling of walking through the first proper snow falling is an unforgettable high. I believe that my mum is in the snow. When she died she brought this intense, wonderful blizzard. People had a rotten time trying to get to her funeral, but it gave me the slightest bit of peace during one of the most painful, incapacitating experiences of my life. I love the soft caress of snow-kisses on my cheeks and I imagine it as her kisses, tickling my nose and reminding me to smile. I can't help but feel lighthearted walking through a snowfall, even as the cold, melted ice slowly soaks through the toes of my worn-in boots. Tonight was no exception. Nature reminds me how small I am and of all the happy, little things that exist everywhere around me. On my walk I encountered a playful English Springer Spaniel pup romping in the fresh coat of white down. I couldn't help but burst out giggling, imagining a mischievous little friend I have back in New England. It is great to be alive. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...

I am quite sure you've noticed that I have nothing to say of any consequence. To be candid: I am procrastinating. I have got a whacking amount of graduate work to do but am in no mood to do it, or to even start it for that matter... I am wicked antsy today, I cannot seem to sit still. I think I have given up on being productive, I am much too distractible, which is why I have come to talk to you, darling... December is an oddish sort of month for me, a cross between tragedy and holiday cheer. I have yet to decide how I feel, as I seem to be all over the place. For now I am just going to wrap myself in blankets, enjoy several cups of tea and indulge myself with sappy, feel-good movies. I will leave room on the couch for you, hope to see you soon.