My first notion was to wait until August 5 to post this. Then I thought I should try to break this fast-forming cycle of fifths. Cinco de Mayo is the day she passed on. I measure time with a Before and After Mina ruler. I don't want the habit to gel though. So. Here I am; trying to jump the gun with my first offering of mail art in too long. Yes, I am still alone with others, but writing a one-page letter is a step to reconnecting. Just one page. One page is a good beginning.
I still don't have much to say. Any letter I am likely to write is still going to be all about me. I still
lie dress up the truth on occasion. Like now: In all honesty, I am am closer to being 80% off, but it can only get better, right? Sometimes I feel like Mama and I are in a remember-Mina-and-be-sad relay race, where we pass the baton and let the other cry where we leave off. We are rarely sad and weepy together, and she is often less likely to fall into the pit if I fall first. My little mama is the best spiritual cheerleader I know. So, I try to distract her with little things. Like two jars of the muscadine jelly I made. I sent her a lovely long cotton skirt and she promises she cannot wait to go strut her stuff at the mall in that gypsy cloth. I sent her figs from my tree. I sent okra from my garden. I think she loves the photographs best.
I send her care packages, photos I took of Mina the last time we rented a beach house in Galveston, photos of the last time they were here at my home. Mama loves to see her baby daughter healthy and smiling. She has grown to like the berds I draw on the packages and photo envelopes. I print the notes I include because my fingers, wrist and hand cramps hard if I write cursive. I am just that rusty.
The hand cramps will go the way they came--with use--once I start flexing my letter-writing muscles more regularly, huh? My attention span will lengthen. My memory? Well, forgetfulness has its perks. I know I will more than likely have something nice to write about after JC's birthday trip to the beach. Galveston is usually good for what ails us. So, I will take all your letters with me
when if we go, as planned, because I aim to catch up on all the mail I owe. Remember though: I am our family's fishing champ, so if any mail postmarked Galveston, Texas comes your way, check for bait stains, fish scales, a little salt water . . . No mail a'tall means I'm reeling 'em in, sleeping in the sun, or the guys have buried me in the sand.
This is an attempt to reconnect. I try. I feel dull and slow and empty-witted when I try to put words on paper. Grief should be classified as an illness. I promise you I am telling the truth when I say this: I hardly know who I am now. Yet, still I try.
Thank you for understanding.