“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
- Soren Kierkegaard
The next letter I pulled out of the pile was addressed to me. I don’t know how this letter made it into a box on June’s shelf. Maybe she wrote it and never mailed it to me. When my first story was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, I was ecstatic and of course mailed her an autographed copy of the book.
3/31/11
Dear Linda,
Thank you so much for sending the book of dog stories. Your article on Ginger is delightful. I really think that having a dog in your family is one of the special pleasures we can have.
Of course, there is one problem. Are you having trouble coping with Ginger’s ego now that her story has been published?
Give her a hug from me and enjoy the season.
Love,
June
In 2009 Richard and I made the most impulsive decision of our married life to move 150 miles north of Delray to a new area in Brevard County, Florida called Viera. I’d been laid off from my job of fifteen years in the corporate headquarters of Office Depot. Richard was ready to retire and we both needed a change. What we didn’t anticipate however, was the Great Recession.
June didn’t take the news well and refused to come with us. No amount of coaxing or bribery could change her mind. I knew she’d push back as irrational a response as she could think of. She had no one else close in her life, no children of her own, no one who took an active interest in her well being besides Richard and me.
“I won’t be able to sell my apartment,” she argued.
“Richard and I will buy you a condo near us. You can pay rent if that makes you feel better,” I answered. “We’ll cover you until your condo is sold.” This might be a stretch for us financially but one we were willing to take to keep June safe. Although still in fairly good health, she was closing in on ninety years old.
“I’m not moving. You go.” She stomped her foot, her stubborn ways surfaced at the news she didn’t want to hear. Or when what she thought benefited her and her alone was being yanked out of her control. Moving and starting a whole new life would be scary for me too so I understand her point of view. Going it alone seemed even more frightening to me.
I’ve often thought about why June never learned to drive a car. She was an intelligent, independent woman and driving is part of being self-sufficient. She wanted us all to believe, my father included, she was afraid of everyone else on the road, not her own skills behind the wheel. After all these years of watching her talk people into giving her a ride wherever she needed to go, put June in control. She got the rest of us to drop our own lives and drive her around town whenever she needed to go on an errand. I built my personal schedule around June and that’s exactly what June wanted me to do.
I was raised to respect the wishes of my parents and grandparents, adults in general. I’d been taught not to talk back so I didn’t. If that’s what she wanted, who was I to say. She took care of herself without my help, and that wouldn’t change just because I wasn’t nearby any longer. June threw a temper tantrum because I was no longer under her control.
The day I left for good, I went to say goodbye. I don’t remember what we said to each other. I only remember hugging her as June’s small, frail frame became lost in my arms. The last memory of June that day was feeling the sharpness of her bony shoulder blades sticking out through her sweater. We both quickly released our hug; I turned and walked down the corridor, anxious to drive to my new home and my new life, not having a second thought about what I was leaving behind. Except for June.
“I’ll miss you,” June called out. “I love you.”
I stopped. June had never spoken those special three words to me before. Ever. Growing up, those words had never been tossed around by anyone in my family let alone my parents.
I turned around. As she lifted her hand to wave goodbye, she rubbed her hand against her face, hoping I wouldn’t notice her tears.
“I love you too,” as I waved goodbye. In my heart I felt a pang of remorse at leaving her here all alone but I didn’t stop myself from walking away.
***
Richard and I lived in our new home for about six months. It had been a rough road, adapting to a new place and new way of life. I’d been unsuccessful in finding any kind of work. The year was 2009, the height of the great recession. Since I no longer had a regular job, I immersed myself into my passion, writing.
I read about a creative writing workshop at a local university and signed myself up. The first day of the seminar, my body tingled with excitement. I decided to take the classes in personal essays, fiction novel writing and screenplays. When I walked into my first class, one on individual stories, I didn’t know if the high came from the fact that I really wanted to hone my writing skills, or that the professor standing at the front of the room welcoming his students, was one, handsome, sexy hunk of a guy.
A man in his fifties, gracefully graying, who obviously spent some time in the gym, wore a pair of broken-in jeans and a tight fitting t-shirt. I stared. This class would be even better than I imagined.
“Let’s get started,” he said running his fingers through a gorgeous head of hair. “Write a letter to your father.”
I gulped.
The rest of the students began writing at a furious pace. I struggled to get even one word on the page. This wouldn’t be easy. My guilt at leaving June was never far from my thoughts. I finally got something down before the dreamy professor called time and asked us to stop.
“Who would like to read first?” he asked. No one raised his or her hand.
He leaned in to read my nametag. “Linda, read yours to us.” The brief whiff of his cologne did little to calm me even though it smelled quite delicious.
I screwed up my face as if to say, “Do I have to?”
“Go ahead. We’re simply learning. None of us is passing judgment here. Those are the rules of my classroom.”
I didn’t want to be one of those whiny people in a class who expect to be taught something but don’t want to participate in the process. I drew in a deep breath and began to read.
Dear Dad,
I know you asked me to take care of June before you died. Richard and I have tried hard to do that over the years. But now we needed to do something for ourselves. She’s stubborn and refused to move here with us. I know you know that side of her. We’ve found peace here. My hope was that June would find it here too.
Gasping for air, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Like a rushing waterfall, they streamed down my face. I fished through my purse for some tissue while the other students stared.
“You didn’t expect that to happen did you?” the professor asked.
“No,” I managed to squeeze out. “My father died twenty years ago and he asked me to take care of his wife.”
“If writing and reading don’t evoke some kind of deep thought and emotion, then you’ve wasted your time. Good job,” he said. “Who wants to go next?”
A man in the back raised his hand. His letter to his father created a scene where he saw his father eating at Burger King but didn’t stop to talk to him. The crevice of time too deep. My reason for turning on the tears seemed insignificant in comparison.
My father spoke to me from some other realm that day. He let me know in a very public way all was well and Richard and I had his blessing. We had looked after June well and he considered my promise kept. If I learned nothing else from the cool and hunky writing teacher, at least I broke the ice for all the sad and tearful letters to fathers who unknowingly burdened their children with baggage too heavy to lift time and time again. I allowed them to release their pain even if only for a little while.