Constant Change
Written by: luminoUS, Editor-at-Large
The days of my life are calculated in heartbeats and tears and since the tears run few and far between, I suppose my heartbeats are what sustain me. The tears mainly well up in the corners of my eyes but refuse to run down the banks of my cheeks as if they are terrified off falling off of the ledge of my chin into the nothingness of air. Never wanting to appear vulnerable or less than happy, calmness generally overwhelms me. Drowning out sadness or lack of joy, I remain silent. Drifting off silently into worlds of fantasy and imagination where I am allowed to dream freely.
My name is Constance. I suppose my mother knew that only a handful of things would remain unchanging with me and so, my name suited me well. My daily life is grafted around the word “monotony” and I don’t mind the fact that I live in routine. It’s all that I have. I gave up on my dreams of a family long ago. I took a trip to the beach one day late last fall and sat with my feet buried under as much sand as they could possibly withstand. As I pushed my feet deeper so that the granules could invade the crevices of my toes, I wrote all of my dreams on a small piece of pink floral paper. I then rolled it tightly and stuffed it into a Deer Park water bottle, absent the glass Coca Cola bottles seen in similar television scripted scenes, cocked my arm as far back as I could and cast it out to sea. I can only imagine where it landed. I stood on the shore as my dreams floated off to some distant land in search of someone capable of carrying them out in a matter of strength and resilience.
I used to dream of living happily ever after and having a big house full of children but I’ve given up on those things. I walk with my head down most days taking up residence within my head because I feel safest there. Speaking in rhyme most of the time because it gave me comfort and a witty handling over my control issues. It made me feel like I could manipulate anything and make it conform to what I wanted. I found poets intriguing and even let the notion of trying my hand in the ink of the fluidity of words on more than one occasion. I think that dream got lost amidst the stack of books that steadily collect dust in my now defunct study. I stopped wishing and dreaming for the simplest things after my mother died. I cried until my tear ducts ran dry. Here I was, 24 years old and lost. I had no direction. No sense of self and I couldn’t pay Garmin or Tom Tom enough to navigate me towards a brighter tomorrow.
So, I walked as if I were a run-on sentence, from one task to the next with out pause or purpose until something finally stood in my path. It was hard. Sturdy even. And it blocked me from continuing my day. As tall as a toddler in heels, and completely out of my line of sight, I stubbed my toe on what appeared to be an armored trunk. I don’t remember seeing it before, but there it sat in the middle of my mother’s attic. I often walked aimlessly through the house when I was bored, or when the feelings of missing my mother rushed through me with more force than the tides rolling in on a windy summer night. Today was one of those days. I loved the fact that she left the house to me and although I redecorated it for the most part to suit my needs, I still had a vast majority of her possessions in the attic. Certain fibers of her spirit still lingered in the corners as I left them virtually untouched after her delicate fingers gently placed knick knacks for safe keeping. It was in those corners that I found myself most often. Squatting or sitting Indian style as if I was sitting at her feet allowing her trinkets to speak to me in whispers only audible to me and the spirit world.
But this trunk, brown and worn, I barely noticed. I allowed my fingers to eXtend into the wafty air slowly reaching for the trunk. Was I imagining it there? One by one, my fingers touched down slowly fingering the worn outer surface and praying that the contents were something wonder filled and magnificent. As I rested my left hand on the top of the trunk, the fingers of my right hand made their way to the latch that was absent of a lock. I stopped and took a deep breath before opening the trunk.
Timidly, I opened it but still full of purpose. I needed to see the contents and figure out why today, of all days, I walked right into this chest. Did it hold the answers to the questions that were never answered? The lining was that of pastel pink paisley and the heavy smell of memories bottled in remembrance and sorrow traveled into my partially flared nostrils. I cried. Not a torrential down pour of tears; rather the soft stream that trickles after finding something dear that had been misplaced. Lying neatly on top of the once white baby blanket was a letter, as if placed intently for this moment. “For Constance” was sprawled across the envelope in my mother’s once strong handwriting. I took a deep breath and flipped the envelope over. Gently, I opened the seal and pulled out a letter…
Baby girl,
If you are reading this, then I have already transcended and you have finally found what has been awaiting you. Answers. You were always a peculiar child, but I loved you all the same. You were my “constant” stream of love and joy. With you, I never wanted or longed for anything. I know that I may not have done the best job of communicating that but I made it a point to kiss your forehead each night as you slept. Placed warmth around your neck in the midst of cold storms and kept your belly full when you felt malnourished. Life is full of food, my dear; it’s just up to you to find the right meal and prepare it in YOUR kitchen. Mama can give you all of the recipes in her collection but you have to add a bit of your own flavor. I taught you what you needed to know; now it’s up to you to add the spices.
Your father, as I have told you on many occasions, loved you dearly. He just didn’t know it. He left before he could see your beautiful smile. It’s by no means your fault, so stop blaming yourself. He simply had other business to tend to. His lips felt more comfortable and at home wrapped around the mouthpiece of a saxophone and so, I let him live his life traveling and touring. He went on to become a great jazz musician. We communicated through letters and photographs. If you are reading this letter, I’m sure you have opened the trunk and within it lies all of our letters. Your father also sent you postcards and pictures from majority of his tour dates. I’m not sure why I never showed them to you. You never really asked much after I told you that you were loved dearly. It was as if my love and the love that he sent through the clouds that you shared was enough for you. Continue to let that love drive you. Although I’m no longer with you, my supply of love for you is never ending. Live your life with spice, Baby, and break up the monotony every now and again. It never hurts.
Love,
Mommy
I fell back onto my bottom with such force that a tingle ran up my spine. Did I really want to know who my father was? Did it even matter now? Did I want to open the creaking door of the past even further and read the correspondence that the two of them shared or did I want to close the trunk and relish in my mother’s words until I needed to know more? I clutched the letter close to my chest and inhaled the fragments of love that was left in between the lines. I didn’t want to know any more; at least not now. I sat in silence for a few moments longer. I ran my fingers over my mother’s handwriting in attempt to touch her hand and for a brief second I could feel the softness of her skin. I cried and she smiled. I felt a brush on my shoulder as I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and gently laid it back in the trunk. I pulled the trunk closed as I knelt in front of it and stood slowly.
Later. I would come back. I would investigate more. I would read about my father and the magnificent love they shared right after I learned how to master life with the spices that my mother had just pushed into the hollow space in between my arms.
Fin.
