Dear Self

Dear Self:

It’s okay to remember. Memories are like the weather. One day, the sky is clear and bright, and then the wind of doubt forces its way into our thoughts, causing us to question who we are and what we want for our future. Don’t worry…yesterday is gone, but it doesn’t mean we can’t learn from our mistakes. Why am I hesitating? Don’t be frightened…each heartfelt memory reminds you the sun will rise again.

Memories are like floods. Once the water is released, returning it to where it came from is impossible. As if turning the page of a book, let’s start at the beginning of my first real memory:

I don’t think we knew we were poor. Everyone around us was just like us, but somehow, Momma made a way. Living in a duplex meant we shared a wall with our neighbor. They were a family we loved, and they loved us. When you share a wall with someone, you also share their pests. Growing up with mice and roaches was common in our neighborhood. It was a battle…us against them. The constant spraying and setting of mouse traps were a daily ritual.

One night in particular stands out. A single mom with six kids in a two-bedroom duplex…yes, we were squished. Three boys and two girls in one room. Two brothers shared one bed while my oldest sister was stuck sleeping between me and my youngest brother. One hot summer night, in the stillness of the night, those mouse traps started to snap. I mean an orchestra of popping…pop, pop, pop sang out in the night. I can laugh now, but back then, I was terrified. My older brother, the joker in the family, shouted in a loud voice, “I think we are winning the war.” We all began to laugh. We were so loud that Mom yelled at us to go back to sleep. We snickered for a while, but in laughter, I found a calmness that soothed my fears. Advice to my younger self…laughter didn’t change our circumstances, but it brought joy in the midst of a crisis.

Dear Self:

Remember the kitchen fire? I was told this wasn’t the first time our house caught on fire. The first one was when I was a baby. The fire I remembered happened one day when my sister was frying chicken. The grease caught on fire. I remember screaming. As the hero she was, my sister removed the pan and placed it in the sink…all good, you would think, but a well-meaning neighbor turned on the faucet. Flames rose from the sink, igniting the kitchen curtains and racing up the kitchen wall. My older sister chased us out of the house. Once we were safe, she did as she had done years earlier, went back into the house and rescued our baby sister from her crib. The firemen eventually came. They made a mess.

The walls were covered with soot, and water soaked the floors. I’m sure Mom was relieved we were safe, but all I remember was her laughing. A silly, funny laughter rose from the depths of her belly. Mom could’ve yelled or been angry, but instead, she made painting and cleaning up fun. After experiencing two house fires, Mom never allowed us to burn candles. If the lights went out, we would sit in the dark. Advice to my younger self…heroes are real, and they walk among us.

Dear Self:

Do you recall our first snowstorm? I never imagined snow could be blinding, but it was. Millions of soft white cotton balls fell from the sky, bringing beauty and fear to the face of Mom, who had to weather the outdoors. The adult saw the danger in the powdery fury, but what we saw was beauty. School was closed, and we couldn’t wait to go outside. It didn’t matter that we didn’t own snow boots or gloves. Back in those days, we improvised. Socks became mittens, and plastic bags became covers for our shoes. We built snowmen and had snowball fights. We froze. We thawed. Then did it all over again. Advice to my younger self…never lose the joy in moments of innocence.

Dear Self:

The best Christmas ever. I’ve always loved Christmas. What kid doesn’t like Christmas? Christmas is a time when people act differently. They smile more as if anticipating what is to come. I love everything about Christmas…even the idea of Santa Claus. I don’t think I ever believed in Santa Claus. Being poor, you’re forced to grow up with realistic expectations. I don’t recall wanting anything special that Christmas. I was a kid. Life was about waking up, going to school, helping around the house, and doing it all over again.

Back then, we had live trees. I once thought we stopped having live trees because my sister had allergies, but I later learned Mom couldn’t afford to buy a tree each year just to throw it out. Live or artificial, we always had a tree. So…what made the memory of this Christmas special? Let me set the scene. Picture a Christmas tree decorated in a fashion only a mother could love. It was trimmed in multicolored lights and balls, streaming with silver tinsel and angel hair scattered wildly. There weren’t any gifts under the tree that year, but we woke up early Christmas morning to find envelopes with each of our names on them hanging on the tree. We grabbed those envelopes, clutching them as if our every wish could be found inside. When we opened our envelope, we discovered a single dollar bill…one dollar. You would have thought we were given a million.

I remembered the laughter, smiling faces, and joy surrounding our household. Through the years, life had become monetarily better. We were no longer just surviving; we were thriving. Many Christmases have come and gone for us as a family, but I never recall a repeat of such joy as that Christmas. There were no dolls, bikes, or toys, just a single one-dollar bill, but for that Christmas, it was more than enough…we had each other. Advice to younger self, no gift is too small as long as it is given from a heart of love.

Dear Self:

You’re not a quitter. You started your journey down memory lane. The road is long, there are bumps and curves, and the speed limit will change as you age, but it is a road you will walk, but never alone. Along the way, you will make and lose friends. You will laugh and cry, but journaling will be a source of strength. It’s in the power of words that you will cry and shout. No longer will you be silent. Each word written will be medicine to your soul. Write and write more; the healing in forgiving yesterday brings hope for tomorrow. Advice to younger self…dream big and write the vision, you only speak in silence.