Hello Me!

       The melodic song of the morning meadowlark echoes through your head until, finally, your brain is stimulated, forcing your eyes slowly open. You want to smile at the joyfulness the songbird elicits, but remembering the long hours you just completed and feeling the weariness of your body, you also want to throw a coffee cup at it! You opt for the more neutral response of slowly resurrecting from your slumber and turning over to your back. 

            I wouldn’t get up at all, you reason with your body, but dad insisted I come today to help with that dream car of his.

            You contort your body with stretches designed to awaken you further, but it only serves to remind your body of its tired and achy muscles. But, get up you must, so you perform the task reluctantly. After your usual morning bathroom routine, you dress and head into the kitchen. Doubting your widowed patriarch will supply any food to break your sleep-induced fast, you search your freezer and find the breakfast biscuit with the bright sunshine on the packaging. I hope this brightens my demeanor as vivid as that sun! you think. While it percolates in the microwave, the cup of cappuccino your new coffee machine has spit out is ready. Grabbing the hot cup and the blistering sandwich, you head out the door. You know your father, widowed just a year now today since your mom died of cancer, will be waiting on you. Forty years of rising early for a job from which he was now retired had ingrained habits hard to break. You know also that today, of all days, his mind needs a distraction from his precious memories.

            As you walk towards your vehicle, something catches your eye. Halting your steps in the middle of the sidewalk, you scan to your left, determined to discover what seems out of the ordinary. Suddenly, you realize what distracted you: your opened mailbox. You definitely remember closing it yesterday after clearing out its junk; it’s much too early for your prompt postman to have come today. You continue to your vehicle, and place your cup and sandwich in the center console. 

I suppose I’d better close it in case it rains, you determine, as you stare at the darkening sky. I wouldn’t want my junk mail to get wet!

You trudge the some fifty steps, grab the door, and give it a push upward. But, wait, was something in there? You peek in again, and, sure enough, a letter lurks in the shadowed corner. Opening the door once again, you gaze at the letter, knowing full well you had picked the box clean the day before. As if it might bite, you reluctantly reach for the piece of mail backed in the corner like a scared rabbit. Pulling it to within eyesight, you freeze as you notice the return address. It simply says, “P. L. T.” Those are your initials. The return address is your own address, and there is no postmark. Someone must have deliberately placed it there, you reason. A creepy feeling raises the hair on your neck.

 Suddenly, you laugh heartily. That rascal! you finally realize. He had me going like a timid school girl! I’ll  fix my brother’s little red wagon!

You know it had to be him pulling this gag. Only he would do something as childish as this. This was the person who put ants in your bed; the same one who pranked-texted you pretending to be an interested girl; and the same one who poured jalapeño sauce in your soft drink. Having reached your car, you jump in, start it, then ring your brother on its onboard phone.

“Hey, bro!” came his opening reply. “What’s happening?”

“Just what kind of prank are you trying to pull now? Will something pop out at me if I open it?”

Silence. Then, “What in the heck are you babbling about?”

“Oh, as if you don’t know,” you accuse. “I’ve been the butt of your pranks enough to recognize your handiwork!”

“I have no idea to what you are referring. I have been working twelve to fourteen hour shifts plus, if you will recall, trying to get my house ready to move into when I get married next month!”

His upcoming nuptials were close, and you suddenly remember the enormous amount of work that old farmhouse needed. Still, if not him, who?

Your brother’s voice stirs you from your thoughts. “Tell me what’s going on, brother! You have my curiosity piqued now.”

You quickly relay the story of the letter to his hearing. After listening without interrupting, he somberly asks, “Have you tried opening it yet?”

You admit you have not, and distractedly tell him you will call him back, then hang up. This is a strange mystery, but opening it might provide the needed answers to your silent questions. Retrieving the letter from the seat beside you, you once again stare into its soul. Should you open it? What if it is a prank from someone else, or worse, a scare tactic from some terrorist? Wow! Where did that thought come from? you wonder. A shake of your head restores some similitude of sanity to your warped thoughts. There is one way to discover its origin.

Holding the letter at arm’s length, you methodically expose the contents of the envelope. You did not realize your breath had caught until you hear the exhale of air from your lungs. A half smile escapes at the reality that it is “just a letter.” Spreading out the folded letter, your eyes begin to peruse its contents. Once again your respiratory system ceases to function temporarily as the opening line slams into your mind like a sledgehammer.

“Hello me, it’s you.”

The letter slips from your stiffened fingers, and falls silently to your lap. Gathering your frazzled thoughts back into your startled mind, you mechanically reach for the wayward paper and lower your eyes to its contents. Reading on causes chills to chase each other up and down your spine.

“You once wished that you could some day speak to your future self and ask yourself about lessons learned along life’s journey. Well, here I am.”

You frantically turn the paper over and over, wondering what sort of sorcery had been concocted. The fact was, you had wished that very wish at the impressionable age of twelve. But, you interrogate yourself, did I ever say that aloud or speak about it to anyone? Your memory is a little fuzzy in that regard. Maybe you should keep reading.

“Are you prepared to answer your own questions?  Surely you can share some words of wisdom! I know that Dad has supplied you with invaluable fodder for consideration. He’s an intelligent man! And what about Uncle  Dave? His years of maturity I am sure has influenced your young, pliable brain.

“Tell me what lessons you learned from your first girlfriend, Brittney. How about your first job at Mr. Miller’s store? Now that was a wise old bird! Did you learn anything from your knucklehead friends who have always been loyal? You had some great teachers in school; any chance that some life lesson from them pierced your heart and made an impression?”

Your eyes blur the words on the page as you ponder the weirdness of this strange phenomena. You scan the recesses of your mind, searching for some logical explanation, but no answer is supplied by your now puzzled brain cells. You know how illogical this seems, but, at the moment, no lucid explanation comes forward. I’ve encountered many strange things in my short life, you rationalize, but never, ever, anything remotely similar to this!

Your wayward eyes refocus on the paper in your shaking hands. You will your hands still, and order your lungs to release another breath, not having realized at first that you were again holding it inside.

“If you haven’t already recovered from your shock, wake up and grab a sheet of paper and start recording your answers to these your own questions. Later, you can reflect on them to determine how much richer your life is because of those who impacted your life with the life lessons that brought you to where you are today, and will influence future decisions you make.

Your best friend,

You

The disturbing blare of your ringtone shakes you from your reverie. You stare at your onboard screen, and blurt out, “Dad!” Pressing the answer button, you speak.

“Hey, dad.”

“Well, lazy bones, you finally decided to join the land of the living? I thought you were coming to help me today. You change your mind?” Your dad’s soothing, soft voice was a much needed balm for your spirit.

Suddenly realizing that you were still in your driveway inside your running car, you put the vehicle in drive and pull onto the uncrowded street. “I’m on my way now, Dad. Just left my house, and should be there in ten minutes, depending on traffic.”

“Okay,” replies your father, “is everything kosher?”

“I’ll talk to you when I get there. See you in a few.” You disengage the call, still distracted by the parcel of mail haunting your thoughts.

The ride to the house of your childhood was shortened by the sparse traffic on the highways. Pulling into the familiar driveway evokes memories of days gone by. Your aging dad stands in his open garage, wiping grease from his time-weathered hands. You grant him a quick wave as you depart your vehicle. Striding over to him, you flash a semi-smile and a curt nod of the head.

“You look like you have seen a ghost!” your father observes. What’s wrong with you.”

You laugh nervously, then offer, “Maybe I have.”

You’ve seen the concerned look on your dad’s face many times before, and you know wise counsel always follows. Continuing, you share the events of that morning. As you rattle on, there is a change of expression that takes over the kind face in front of you. You end your spiel by saying, “I was sure this was a prank by my jokester brother, but now I don’t know.”

Your dad absently reaches for a wrench, and as he reaches into the engine compartment of his new toy, he questions, “So, are you going to do as the letter suggests?”

There’s something about your dad’s sudden nonchalant demeanor that seems curious. But, maybe he’s just being his usual cool, calm, and collected self. 

Your answer surprises even yourself. “Well, it is an excellent idea. A man can always learn from his past.  Besides, I remember the old saying you once told me: ‘A man who does not learn from the past is doomed to repeat it.’ In twenty-six years I may not have much life experience, but, like the letter suggests, I can learn from those in my life, as well as the handful of successes and failures I’ve had.”

The shuffle of your dad’s feet and his continued downward gaze has now fully aroused your suspicions. Out of curiosity you ask, “Dad, do you know something about this?”

“Why should I?” he quietly responds. But something in his voice gives away any subtlety he was seeking to display. And . . . was that moisture in the corner of his eye?

He stops his piddling and, with deliberate intention, now stares directly into your eyes, his eyes glistening from the bright morning sunlight radiating into the garage entrance. At that moment he looked as if the cares of the world had been lifted from his usually strong shoulders.

“I never was much for keeping a secret, was I?” he interjects.

“Dad, you did this? But why? I don’t understand. Was this supposed to be a joke or something?” Somehow you knew that last question was inappropriate, but it tumbled out anyway.

After a few moments of silence, your dad gathers his thoughts and says, “No, son, it was never intended to be a joke. And my part in it was just to make sure you received it. That’s all.”

Your mind is now like a train speeding down the track, and you are attempting to comprehend the entirety of this whole ordeal. Suddenly, you realize the facts he had just spilled, and only one question now formulates. “Dad, if you didn’t write it, then who?”

“Your mother!”

His reply hits you in the gut like a raging bull. After catching your breath, dozens of questions now flood your brain as tears fill your eyes. But the only thing you can eek out of your mouth is, “Mom?”

Your dad gives you a moment to gathers your emotions, then begins his explanation. “Yes, your mother. She requested that I wait until today to make sure you got it. I know you boys know that she was an English major in college, then we were married, and ten months later, your big brother came along. She opted to be a stay at home mother if I could provide for the family. I had a good job, and I was determined that she would never work outside the home if I could help it. But she always dreamed of being a writer. She wrote a novel, and sent it to a publisher shortly before your birth, and on the day you two arrived home from the hospital, she found a letter of rejection in the mail. She was despondent at first, as anyone would be, but she was so delighted in her new bundle of joy that she couldn’t stay unhappy for long.”

A smile forms upon your tear-streaked face at the realization of your mother’s great love for her boys. She had sacrificed so much for both of you, and yet, neither of you had ever fully understood how much. Your dad continues.

“She did not, however, allow that rejection to thwart her love for writing. It was a passion for her, yet one she kept secret. I urged her to share her writings with you boys, but she said she couldn’t, and I was to never mention it either. When she found out she had cancer, and that nothing could be done medically, she decided to write that letter. She pointed out that she had overheard you say that aloud to yourself, but that you were unaware that she had heard. She then developed the idea you now hold in your hand.”

This is so overwhelming to your senses that you begin to cry and sniffle. Your dad is now at your side, with his gentle arm around you. You hug him close, now missing your mom’s warm embrace as well. Then your dad pushes himself to arm’s length and announces, “That’s not all. Follow me inside.”

You dazedly obey his command and follow him into your childhood home. The two of you reach the dining room table, where an open package resides. Your dad, a broad smile now plastered on his face, turns to you and says, “I have a big surprise for you and your brother. Here.”

He shoves something towards you, and you glassily stare down at his hands. Your hands come up to take the offering from him, and settle on the hard binder of a book. You read the title at the top: Letters from Myself to Me. Yours eyes scour the front of the book until you inevitably reach the author’s name: Louise Carter. Mom. You search your father’s face for the answers you knew were coming.

“A few months ago I finally worked up the courage to sift through your mother’s things. In them I found the manuscript for this book, evidently written from the very idea you once unknowingly presented her. I also found the name and address of a publisher I believe she intended to approach about the possibility of publishing her book. Apparently, she never worked up the courage to send it. So I decided to do it for her. Someone from the publishing company called and wanted to speak to the author. I told them about your mom, and the circumstances surrounding their receiving of the book from me. They were so excited about the book, and yet very sorrowful to hear of her passing. But, they wanted to publish the book posthumously, and I gave them the okay. I received it in the mail yesterday.”

You stand awestruck, not sure whether to cry, smile, or do both. Before your emotions could make a decision, the sound of a car screeching to a stop in the driveway grabbed you and your dad’s attention. Stepping outside, you immediately recognize your brother’s worn out car. He jumps out, and high-steps toward you. His face looks contorted with confusion.

“There’s something I failed to mention to you,” your dad whispers.

By this time your brother is in your face, and states, “I have been dialing your number for twenty minutes! Why didn’t you answer?” 

Feeling your pockets, you confess, “I must have left it in my car. Sorry about that.”

“Why did I get one of these letters, too?” He demands. “Can anyone answer that? Did you ever figure out who sent it?”

You and your dad quickly glance at each other, then to your brother, and speak in unison.

“Mom!”