Lessons

Another toilet scrubbed, another bed made, you are beyond thankful that this is your final room. After punching the clock, you walk on aching feet down the street, passing barred windows and blowing trash along the way. The corner bus stop, finally, you slump onto the battered wooden bench and wait for the bus to arrive. Each day you wake thinking today would be the day I will get use to this, each day you are wrong.

It has been three months now, three months of flat broke. Three months of bologna and mustard on day old bread. Three months of scrubbing toilets to earn just enough for rent on a roach infested studio and a two-week supply of bologna. You have fallen a long way since your mother's death, if only she had not trusted Christopher so much. You shake your head; those thoughts will only get you more depressed.

The bus arrives with its stench of diesel and squeal of brakes. You drop your change in and flop into the first open seat. You rub your neck and roll your shoulders tying to ease the tension there. With a deep sigh you lay your head back and think, think about you now compared to you then. The blisters you made the first week or so of work has turned to calluses, your once dyed and pampered hair is frizzy and dry, and make-up is a luxury you can only dream about. Another thought moves in and you smile, your proud of the strength you have discovered, you have made true friends something you never had before and you have survived something you was sure would kill you. The thoughts roll out just as the had rolled in, you doze as the bus bounces its way towards your home.

The corner the bus stops at is in a neighborhood you use to avoid, now the ugly towering apartment blocks are home. Lowering your eyes, you make your way through the streets, noticing nothing. Not noticing the gang banger slinging drugs, or the drunk sleeping it off in the alley. Head down you trudge on, once in the apartment complex you move towards the mailboxes. They are sheltered by a wooden cover that is slowly rotten away, you round the first row and head to your box. You slide the key in and allow the little dented door to swing open.

At fist you do not believe your eyes, surely, he would not dare write you. Your eyes are not playing with you though indeed a letter from Christopher Dole sets inside the metal rectangle. You can see the return address, it is not from his law office but from his home. You take a step back away from the offending thing, as if it is a venomous snake that will suddenly lunge at you. What does he want now you wonder; he cannot have my bologna?

With some of your newfound strength you move towards the box, plunge your hand in and yank the letter out. A flyer for a local grocery store falls to the ground unnoticed. You tear the letter open and pull out the heavy parchment inside, you snarl wondering if you mother's money bought this. Your half tempted to ball the letter up unread, but curiosity has you now. Shaking the letter open you find a beautifully penned letter inside.

My Dearest Elizabeth,

Hope this letter finds you well. I am sure your mother would be proud of the progress you have made. In fact, I am very sure, or I would not be writing this letter. Your mother and I had many conversations concerning you and your future. Your dear mother, worried deeply about your lack of interest in anything of a non-vanity nature. You refused to work, refused to go to college, you spent your days spending money someone else earned.

So, your mother decided that you would not receive a dime of your inheritance until you knew what a hard day's work was. Until you understood that the world was vastly different then you ever knew. She blamed herself, she said that her own childhood was so difficult she did not want you to lack for anything. That she allowed you to whine your way into getting everything you wanted knowing you would suffer later. She loved you so deeply that despite the fact she knew that you would be hurt by this, she knew it was the only way to get your attention. The only way you would not end up broke or on drugs or both. She knew about the parties you attended, the people you called friends and the designers you had to have in your closet.

So, consider this a posthumous lesson of a loving mother. Your mother's home awaits you; the bank has been notified that you now have access to your mothers money, which is just under four hundred and forty five million and I, if allowed, will continue being your lawyer. One day I do hope you can forgive me and your mother, we just wished to help you grow.

Sincerely,

Christopher Dole

You stand there shaking,, not noticing the tears streaming down your face. A deep sense of loss settles on your shoulders. The woman you thought you knew so well, the woman you thought was dumb enough to trust the wrong lawyer, a woman who spoke so softly and loved quickly had taught you the most powerful lesson after death. You knew that your live would never be the same nor would the people around you. Three months of having nothing, never thinking you would ever have anything again did not seem exceptionally long. You had met people that had lived their entire lives with those thoughts, but it was long enough. You knew your mother only had money because of a lucky purchase of land with oil. Now more then ever you appreciated her stories of long hot summers with nothing to eat but beans and cornbread. You lock your mailbox and glance at your watch. The banks where already closed for the day and without having to look you knew you did not have cab fare. The bank would be open in the morning, you would just have to wait one more night. Oh well what would one more bologna and mustard sandwich hurt.