Page 147 of Mourner for Hire
They’re both filled to the brim with memories and proof of life and will be fairly easy to organize. But when I move them out of the closet, I notice the wood floors are worn completely, with no stain or lacquer to protect them, leaving the bare and splintery planks exposed to the elements.
I run my fingers over it, and as I do, a slat shifts loosely. The cracks surrounding it are too small for me to get my fingers into, and the wood splinters when I try, stabbing my ring finger. I suck on the tip of my finger in hopes to stop the blood before it starts.
I don’t get time to examine the wound before I push on the end of the board and the other side sea-saws toward the ceiling. It feels like a movie scene—buried treasure or buried secrets await beneath the surface.
The wooden slat clatters as I toss it behind me. The hole is rather narrow, maybe eight inches wide by two feet long, and pitch black. I grab my cell phone and turn on the flashlight, hoping that when I peer down, there isn’t a rat or any kind of mama opossum ready to attack and protect her young.
As the cellphone light illuminates the hole, I see a rectangular pouch, no larger than a manila envelope but about three inches thick. It’s heavier than I expected. The corners are worn, and dust coats the surface. It smells like old ocean and mildew.
I pull it out, and a puff of dust billows out of the floor, making me sneeze and my eyes burn. I wipe my nose and blink twice, holding the pouch out in front of me. It’s embroidered with two initials:
I run my fingers over each letter. CD. Claire Daughtry.
My mama.
With shaking hands, I open it and find it’s filled with letters—eight of them all addressed to me.
I toss my head back and a half-laugh, half-sob escapes my chest. I’m overwhelmed with disbelief, but more thananything I want to claw through the contents and find something—anything—that grounds me to this place I’ve come to love.
The letter on the top of the stack has the number “1” written on top with a circle around it. I don’t think I breathe as I unfold the yellow, crusted paper, but I gasp as soon as I see my name written in my mom’s handwriting.
My sweet Vada
My tears blur the pages. I blink, begging them to stream down my face so I can read the letter.
My mom. The faintest yet most dear memories are fighting to the surface, and I stare at the pieces of paper, realizing she had more to tell me.
You see, that’s what they don’t tell you about letters, especially those left unread, and even more particularly the letters unread that were written by someone who’s no longer here. They’re treasured words from the other side.
My sweet Vada,
Today you are one, my girl.
I love you.
No, that’s not right. Love isn’t a big enough word for how I feel about you. If I could take every star in the sky and every planet in the universe and wrap them up in a giant bow and give it to you, I would. I would weave together constellations and capture fairy dust if I could. I would bottle the sounds of the ocean and let you set sail into whatever life you want.
I live for you. For your safety. Your freedom. And I am doing everything I can to protect you from harm. From skinned knees to heartbreaks—I wish I could protect you from all of it.
I know I can’t though. You will grow up one day. You took your firststeps last week and are currently toddling around at my feet, throwing wooden blocks across the carpet.
I know soon you won’t be toddling but running. You won’t just be babbling but speaking your mind and challenging the world.
Becoming your mother has been the hardest and greatest joy of my life.
I love you.
You are beautiful.
You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I love you. I love you.
Mom
A sob collapses out of me, and I hold the paper close to my heart. There’s this hole that has throbbed in my chest my whole life. I miss her even though I barely remember her. It’s like living life with a missing puzzle piece—but not just any puzzle piece, an edge piece. One that holds the entire puzzle together, and without it, little bits and pieces in the center shift and spill out.
As I sift through the letters, I realize each one is written on my birthday. One when I’m two and I was too obsessed with yogurt to notice my dad left. Another when I’m three and she dubbed me her favorite threenager—it’s just me and you against the world, kid,she wrote. When I’m four and started t-ball. When I’m five and learned to ride a bike—our neighbor cheered me on while Mom ran next to me. Six was when I learned to read and we spent our afternoons at the library, leaving with stacks ofstories to read. Seven was all about my seashell collection. And eight, the final letter is unfinished.
