The Lead Letter.

My grandad never talked much. Not because he didn’t love us. I never got that impression at all. He just didn’t like speaking. Quiet as a mouse, he was like a ghost, sometimes seen but rarely heard. He always came to every function. He’d sit down with us all, break bread and chow down. He loved collared greens probably more than us all. He’d make the cornbread every Christmas. I made mashed potatoes just for him, his favorite thing. That and the pie. He’d pile his plates up high. At least the food did make him smile. He would always stay for dinner, even if to escape right after. He’d sit down, take mine and Grandma’s hand. He’d let Gram lead the family prayer. She talked enough for them both, come to think.

And no one questioned it. We loved him, quiet or not. I had always felt I had a special connection with him. Though I only heard his voice a few times in my life.

It was Christmas time, the year he died. The year I turned twelve; that was 1999, ten years before today. I’ll never forget how my life changed, hours then days after the final will was read, distributions of his modest wealth divvied out. The money was not what changed things. Actually…it was the letter. He left letters for us all, telling of his pride in our accomplishments. My mother was thanked for her kindness, and my father for his courage. Grandma was thanked for never leaving the room silent in his wake. My siblings were given words of love and encouragement. They were told things I never guessed I’d hear him say.

He died peacefully, in his sleep. His heart had stopped in the night. It had almost felt like he’d prepared, as he went to sleep dressed in a suit. He lay atop the covers, both hands folded over his belly. Beside his bed was a trunk. Upon that, a letter inviting us all to peruse and take the contents. And so we did. Within the trunk, we found a perfectly organized set of odds and ends. The documents of the will, of course, were there. Along with old photos that he’d hidden away. Souvenirs from his travels abroad. He had his high school graduation cap, pictures from prom. There were drawings that he’d done. A couple of journals, filled to the brim. And letters, lots of letters. One for each member of the family, even my baby sister, Jolie. She got one too, even though she couldn’t read.

I almost thought that I had been left out. As the last letters were pulled from the trunk, my father read each name and handed them out. My heart was already smashing under the weight of grief. I felt crushed and raw, like I’d been turned inside out. Worse as each letter came out without my name on it. I was waiting, aching, longing to hear what he had to say. When they got to the last letter, for my little sister, my stomach was already cramping. Tears were gushing from my face, down my cheeks, and dripping in my lap. 

My dad had said that there were no more letters left. I was nearly hysterical. It felt like I’d been gutted. My world was collapsing, all light went dim.

I had always been fond of him, even though he never spoke. I’d come out to greet him, whenever I came to the house. Even though he hid in the back, I would come find him every time. I’d tell him about my day at school. I’d read him stories from books or silly ones that I wrote. I showed him the funny drawings I did in art class. He’d smile and pat my back. The thought that he had nothing to say to me–that he could forget me, just me alone–left a gaping hole in my heart…

But he didn’t forget me. Dad just didn’t see it. Nobody knew he left me a letter, because it was not in the trunk. They cleaned the whole thing out, just to make sure it hadn’t gotten tucked in with something else. They checked everywhere, no letter. I was so upset that I ran away to my room in the back–an old playroom I used to have, plastered with old drawings and awards from school. The room was like a museum of my childhood hopes and dreams. I’d left so many things for him and Gram, they hung them all up in my room.

My mom had followed and come to my side, once the letters were all handed out. She tried to console me, the best she could. “Grandad was old,” she had said. “He might have forgotten. Or maybe he didn’t get to it before he passed. Maybe he was saving yours for last.”

I shook my head. My chest was caving in. I could not speak.

She hugged me while I cried that night. It’d be another day until I’d finally find what he left. He did not put my letter with the rest, but there was a letter. I did not find it until I went out to the porch, out back. Still bitter and sobbing, the next morning, I came out to sit on the swinging bench. Right where he always sat when he wrote and smoked his pipe. 

I sat down, right in his spot. It almost still felt warm. I looked out across the yard, imagining myself to be him. I thought about what he might have thought of on the last days he spent on Earth, sitting on this bench. I wondered if he thought of Grandma and Mom. Did he think of little Jolie, growing up without him? Somehow she got a letter. She barely knew him at all. I wondered if he thought of me, in those last few days. Did he know how much I cared for him? 

“Do you know how much I loved you?” I softly asked, speaking up to the cloudless morning sky.

I almost felt it reply. I almost felt the air breathe. The wind blew. It pointed my head to a spot in the back of the yard. I looked. My eyes began to adjust…

And then I saw it. Far off and in the back of the yard, there was something set up against a tree. And not just any tree, I knew which one it was. It was our tree. One we planted together. I had an assignment at school to do something meaningful with a relative. I chose to plant a tree with my grandad, out in his backyard. It was a small, potted peach tree, which we transplanted into the fertile soil back beside the cherries, plums, and apricots. It fit in perfectly, right there.

That was one of the only times I heard him speak. He said, “Well done.” That was all. It was after I’d piled all the dirt into the hole and patted it down. I looked up at him with a smile, and those were the words he spoke.

“Well done.” He patted my head. Didn’t speak again for at least another year. 

The next time he spoke, it was also about the tree. I’d come out to see him while he sat on his bench. I sat beside him and gave him a hug. “The tree’s looking good,” he’d said. His voice, a soft rasp. I almost couldn’t hear, but I knew what he said. The tree had been doing well. It’d grown a few feet, just in the last year. It was then sprouting small, greenish peaches that might not ever fully ripen. 

“It’ll be bigger,” I had said. “Next year, and then the next.”

He nodded with a smile and said nothing else.

The year he died, the tree was massive. It’d grown far more than I expected. It was now the largest tree in the yard. Even though the others were older and more established, somehow that one outgrew the rest. And that was where he left my letter, at the base of the tree that we planted together, the year that I turned six.

When I saw the letter, I leapt from the bench. I ran over and fell to my knees by the tree. I could tell it was ‘a letter’, even though it was not white. Actually, it was grey, like a dull silver spoon. It did not shine in the light. I’d only seen it by chance. I was crying so hard when I touched it. There was nothing written on it. Just a little bit of dust, blown up by the wind.

I wiped it off and took it in my hands, noticing in an instant that it was strangely heavy. In fact, as I touched the cool surface of the letter, I realized that it was made of metal. It was maybe nickel or steel. Felt like lead in my hands. When I picked it up, I almost felt like I’d been duped. Maybe it wasn’t a letter that I’d found. Maybe this was just some scrap of metal. I almost threw it across the yard. But something told me to look further within. I flipped it over and found it parted open. It had a kind of flap. Like a metal envelope, folded over and sealed. Perhaps he made it himself so that it’d protect the letter from weather, sun, and rain.

He couldn’t have known how long it’d take me to find it.

I didn’t question it. I just opened it. And sure enough, it was for me. My heart twisted and throbbed, the second I opened it up. When I read the first few words, the tears were welling in my dripping, burning eyes. I could barely see at all.

I’m sorry, James.

That was how it began.

I wish I was brave enough to speak this to your face. Brave enough to live my truth, lead a life unashamed. But I am not brave. I have not ever been. Only one person other than you, now, will know this truth that I’ve hidden all my life. But I give it to you. It is yours to share if you wish.

I almost didn’t understand. But then again, I did.

I’ve never felt like a man. 

There was a large space beneath that line, nothing written. The line stood all alone. And then below, the letter went on.

I’d say that I might have liked it better to have been told I was a girl, from birth. But then again, I am not so sure that that would have worked for me either. In truth, I’d say I am nothing. Not a man. Not a woman. I may have been a boy, once, long long ago. But I have never been a man. Of this, I am sure.

The tears cleared up for a moment. I wiped my eyes, read on. 

Your grandmother knows this, my secret. She is the only one I’ve told. She won’t tell the family, as I have made her swear silence. Though she made me swear mine first.

I gulped.

I told her long ago that I did not feel myself to be a man and that I would rather her think of me as something else, anything else. She had said there were only two options. I could be a man, as she said I should. I could try to be a woman, as that would be the likely alternative. She urged me against trying this, however, or thinking too hard on it. This was long ago, mind you.

The hole in my heart expanded. I’d not even gotten to the worst of it. 

Her words were said in love, I know, but I have never told her how much they hurt. Even then, so long ago, when others did not understand people like me–they still do not, but it was far worse then. I could never shake the pain of having even the woman I loved not understand. Please don’t take this out on her. She did say she wished for a better world, where people like me might feel at home. But there was one thing she did not understand and that…was that I didn’t care about the world.

My gut lurched.

I didn’t care at all about what people thought. I wanted to live my truth. I wanted to be myself. She forbade this, however. She told me not to. And in fact, she begged. I had a plan for who I would tell after her. Friends and family, even my boss at work. She was a lovely, very kind woman, but my wife begged me not to say anything to her or anyone else, and so I didn’t.

I wiped my eyes and read on. My mother came and found me out in the yard, but I saw her back away when she saw me weeping, letter in hand. His words still rang in my ears. I read on and paid no mind to her.

I grew more silent after this. My voice was lost. I wish you could have known me in my youth when I laughed and sang and danced. Back when I spoke more and had more things to say. Everything changed after this. I lost trust. I feared no one would ever understand me, and for the most part, I was right. No one did, not even my wife.

I sighed. It was hard to not hate my grandmother for this. I tried not to, for his sake. But also, I still kinda did.

I will never forget that day you came to me. I’ve no idea why you chose me–of all the wretched, thankless creatures–but I am so glad that you did.

I already knew the day he meant.

That little friend of yours. 

Yep.

The one like me. You’d come to me, a quiet old grey thing, and you told me about your friend. You told me of the other children being cruel to her, solely in her effort to live her truth. You cried by my side and hugged me, a silent old ghost who rarely said a word. Somehow you knew I’d understand. You were so small, back then. I had no words for you, but I hope you know the only reason is because of my grief. Not that I did not feel, but that I could not speak. Too full of feeling, that’s what I’ve always been.

My gut twisted. Breath left me.

I am so proud of you, you cannot even know. When you told me how you stood up for your friend, I almost broke down and told you my truth right there. But I could not reconcile the fact that my fears had never been in vain.

I gulped.

Around the time I told your grandmother of these stirring feelings I held within, something happened. Almost as if on cue, a very telling incident occurred. Just a few days after I told her, after she urged my silence, right around our block and just a stone's throw away from the house we still own today, a young lady was killed. One like me and like your friend. I hate to say it, but your grandmother was right about one thing. That it is dangerous to be something that other people do not understand.

I felt a stab of pain, fear-touched and deep.

It was someone I knew. Someone I liked. Not a close friend, but it was someone who I often thought of. Someone who reminded me of myself. That girl, she was beaten in an alley for being ‘gay’ as if…as if she even was. They did not even know what she was. Though I’d dare say that it didn’t matter to them at all.

I had to stop reading for a moment. Somehow it all made sense. My brain wanted to think, but also I was crying so hard I couldn’t even see. I couldn’t breathe, for a moment. Had to wipe my eyes twelve times. Spilled tears on the letter, pooling and blotting at the very bottom where it ended. 

I wish I could have lived a life more brave, like her. Like your friend who knew so young. If I could do it all again, I would.

I was shaking, by this point. Gripping the letter, tightly. Coughing and snotting. Only a few lines were left. I wiped my eyes on my shirt.

I’m sorry I never told you the truth. Best I could do was just be there for you. Listen. And maybe leave this one piece of advice: 

Live your truth, James. Be real. Do not let anyone stop the life that flows in you. Do not let yourself be silenced. Do not even let others slow you down. Your soul is beautiful. Your words deserve to be heard. And I know I’ve no right to say what you are or what you’ll be, but I always thought you’d have made a very sweet girl. Even if you never choose to call yourself that. It doesn’t matter, just live your truth. 

I will always be proud.

It ended almost abruptly, not even signed with a name. Just a small drawing at the bottom. Just a tree. It was our tree, covered in big, juicy, golden peaches that leapt off the page. He’d even colored them in.

I came out to my family that year. I had always felt like being a boy just didn’t fit. I was never brave enough to say before that Christmas, that year. I told the family first. Shared the letter next. Grandma cried all night, she blamed herself for taking Grandpa’s voice. But I chose not to blame her. I blamed no one at all. I just made the choice to not be silenced, and to always remember his words.