The Lavender Letter

As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks.

You stare at it. You don’t dare touch it as a mint green envelope stares back at you from the shadowy depths of your lighthouse-styled mailbox. Nervously glancing around, you check to see if your nosy neighbors are creaking in their porch rocking chairs.

Your street is quiet, peaceful, and void of any porch-rockers. It’s Tuesday morning, nearly lunchtime, and Roger the mailman waves to you from the mailbox across the street. You lift your palm in response and flash a smile, perhaps too widely, as he climbs back into his mail truck and rumbles away. 

The letter whispers to you.

You thought I didn’t know where you were? That I wouldn’t find you? Guilt uncurls in your gut; a slithering thing.

Your heartbeat quickens. It is an erratic hummingbird, flapping its wings and beating up against the walls of your chest. Sweat emerges on your brow, and your palms suddenly feel as though you dipped them in oil. 

“Everything alright, Monica?” 

You jump, literally, and quite possibly, two steps backward, your hand immediately going out in front of you. 

A middle-aged woman stands on the sidewalk nearly five feet in front of you, both her knitted eyebrows and leashed toy poodle studying you curiously. 

“Mrs...Mrs. Shaw,” you pant, your gaze darting around nervously. “I didn’t see you there.” 

Mrs. Shaw cocks her head, her auburn bob shifting with it, and raises one of her eyebrows, her green eyes stretching upward.

”Goodness, dear,” she croons, “you look as though you saw a ghost. Is there something in the mailbox—“ 

“No!” you yell, throwing the lighthouse door closed. You almost hear the letter chuckle. Mrs. Shaw tightens her hands on the leash. Her toy poodle suddenly finds itself behind her outstretched calf. 

“Well,” she breathes, straightening her lemon-colored, plus-sized t-shirt dress. “I‘ll see you soon then. Come, Leslie.” She tosses her hair with her manicured hand, nearly 15 Alex and Ani bracelets tinkling in appall at your embarrassing display, and recedes down the street. Leslie trots behind her; its poofy brown tail waving ta-ta to the girl afraid of her mailbox. 

You grimace at the scene you’ve caused, no doubt realizing that Mrs. Shaw will have your ‘mailbox-madness’ spread to the neighborhood gossips like tea before the queen by 2pm this afternoon. 

As Leslie’s chocolate cloud of a body floats around the corner, accompanied by the offended lemon, you glance back to the innocent looking mailbox. 

A seagull perches on the power line above you, staring down at you and releasing a startling yuh yuh yuh yuh yuh as you grasp the mailbox’s door handle. You glance upward, wondering if it’s warning you, or laughing at you.

The mailbox door opens slowly, your hand trembling slightly, and the mint green envelope slides into view once more. 

You wipe your palms on your beige capris; your own bracelets tinkle in protest at the sight before you.  

Ah, the letter whispers. Finally.  

~

You stare at it. And pace. And stare at it some more. 

It lays on your strawberry-printed placemat, face down. The kitchen is sunny and warm. The fruit-style theme your mother insisted on covering every inch of your kitchen with seems juvenile now.  

You pace some more, hands on your hips, ebony ponytail swishing. It’s just paper, you remind yourself, but you feel as though it could bite you if you drew close enough. 

The Massachusetts summertime air is sublime today. A sunny 73 degree, cloudless day unrolled before you, promising the perfect bike ride and solitary park sandwich. Too bad it was destroyed by a mint green rectangle. 

You exhale loudly, and your Siamese cat, Napoleon, lifts his head in annoyance. 

“Sorry, Leon,” you murmur, padding toward the cat. You rub his head as he readjusts his neck on your kitchen’s window seat—patterned with teal pears and yellow pineapples—and lazily stretches out his paws, relishing the dapples of sunlight streaming through your watermelon-dotted curtains. 

I’m still here, you hear the letter whisper. 

A slug of anxiety uncurls in your gut. You pace back toward the letter. Your steps are uneasy, almost toddling. You close your eyes as your fingers graze across the back of the letter and curl around its edges. Eyes still shut, you lift the letter and turn it over.

My, what you have become, it seems to say. 

Your eyes snap open as you study the all-too familiar handwriting scrawled across the front of the envelope. Your vision blurs as tears spring up from a fountain of recollection.

Memory throws a dark blanket over you.

~

It’s 2004; 16 years ago. You’re eight. 

Summer has come again, and with it, a trip to Nanie’s. Nanie, your mother’s mother, is a round, smiling, 84-year-old, doting grandmother. The ideal grandmother. Your grandmother. 

Each summer you make the trip to Cape Cod, as your mother drags your six year old brother Murphy behind you, to visit Nanie. She greets you from the porch of her cream colored beach house, waving to you with a dish rag over her shoulder, no doubt having just finished making her famous peanut butter pie. She waits expectantly as you, Murphy, and your mom shuffle out of the car.

Your lavender bedroom—with lavender curtains, a plank floor, and white furniture—remain untouched by anything other than the sea air in the last year. Untouched since your last visit. And waiting for you on your pillow, as it is each year, is a package of your favorite M&Ms. 

Your vacation is well-spent this summer: you complete jigsaw puzzles with Nanie, build sandcastles with Murphy—when he isn’t throwing a temper tantrum—and finally finish the 16th Nancy Drew book. Life is sweet and simple.

Until the last night of your trip. 

You are packing your things, with an occasional melancholy sigh, when you hear a crash and a scream from downstairs. You dash out of your lavender room, socks slipping on the wood floor, and race down the stairs to the kitchen.

You’re met with the sight of your mother kneeling on the ground, pumping her arms on your Nanie’s chest. A china plate lays shattered by your mother’s knees. Your breath catches in your throat as a look of terror crowds your mother’s eyes.

“Call 9-1-1, Monica! Hurry!” Your mother yells desperately, rocking your Nanie with the heels of her hands. 

You glance at Nanie, whose face is colorless, and spy a small smile on her lips. The one she uses when you ask for a second piece of her pie. But her lips are blue. 

“Monica! Now! Grab the receiver on the wall!” Your mother screams. You’re frozen to the spot. Your socks have been glued to the floor. 

“Mama?” You hear Murphy call, coming around the corner of the kitchen counter, holding his stuffed hippo.

Your mother is sobbing. Murphy is crying now. Everything is happening in slow motion. 

~

The memory recedes and you open your eyes. 

Sunlight still glows on Leon’s paws. The apple clock ticks quietly on the wall. The mint green letter remains in your hand. 

Open me, it demands. 

You brace yourself and tear open the top of the envelope. A lavender piece of stationery flutters out and onto the placemat. Your breath hitches.

Tears swim before your eyes, and you choke back a sob. Delicately picking up the stationery, you prepare yourself to read the words you have dreaded receiving since that horrible night. Since you failed to save her. 

Your 24th birthday letter.

My Dear Monica, 

This letter will reach you, per my request and with the help of your mother, on your 24th birthday. While I would love to be with you to celebrate, I know you have accomplished terrific things by the time this letter reaches you.

I have sent (or in this case, your mother has) a letter to each of my grandchildren on their 24th birthday. Why? Well, my dear, because 24 was the year when I decided to do something with my life. It was the year I decided to move out and begin my career. It was also the year I met your grandfather. It was my most favorite year. 

You are an inspiration, my sweet Monica. At only eight years old you are funny, bright, a delight to your mother, and a patient older sister to your brother. Your mother has endured difficult hardships, but you still stand as her beacon of light. Her treasure. 

No matter what life may throw at you, remember you are a shining star in the darkness. No matter your mistakes, your worries, your temptations, or your failures—you, my dear Monica, are destined to make a difference in the lives of those around you. 

As your grandmother, I feel it is not only my duty to encourage you toward greatness, but to remind you of truth. Truths I have learned and carried with me since my 24th year. Truths I want to share with you now. 

Remember to forgive yourself when you fail. 

Remember that love does endure hardship. 

Remember to be kind to yourself, in order to be kind to others.

Remember that people may choose to see what they want to see, not necessarily what is true.

Remember that you have the power to make a difference. 

Remember that you are special, incredible, and important. There is nothing you cannot do.

And most importantly, remember that I love you. You are a special young woman, my dear Monica, and you will always have my love.

Happy Birthday, 

Nanie 

It seems as though even the apple clock is holding its breath.

You dissolve into a puddle of sobs and clutch the letter to your chest. All this time, all these years...if you could have just heard her voice one more time. Heard her forgiveness. And now...now you hold proof of her forgiveness, of her love, of her, to you. In black and white. 

The letter is just a letter, and your guilt no longer whispers to you.

Finally, you are unlocked from your cage. Of wondering. Of shame. This lavender letter: the solution to so much torment. 

Tears stream down your cheeks in absolution.