All For More (Or Less)

Dear Mom,

I know it’s been a while since my last letter to you. I suppose so much has happened that I don’t know where to begin. Then again, I find myself like I often do. I am a stranger in a familiar territory and here I am once more, facing a new beginning and another learning curve.
But like you always told me, this is life.

It has been a long time since our last talk. I suppose we both wish our last talk went differently than it did.
But this is the thing with last talks.
We always wished we had said something different or said things to make sure that nothing went unsaid.
But again, this is life.
There is no rewind button and there is no sequel. This isn’t like the games we played in grade school because there are no do-overs. And if there is such a thing, then do-overs are rare.
At the same time, if you were here, i know you would tell me that each morning is another do-ver.
We might not get a second chance at things. Or maybe we will.
I suppose your point to me was that I should fight for this. And no matter what, I should never settle or give up.
And Mom, I can tell you for sure. I have seen what happens when i settle. But worse, I’ve seen what happens when I give up.
The outcomes can be shameful.
At the same time, there are times when we have to cut our losses.
We have to accept “what is” and sometimes, no matter what we want or how hard we work for something to come true, the answer can will be, “No!”
But the answer “no” can mean different things and come from a different angle or be said with a different concept in mind.
I have to trust the process. I have to run towards, and not away because I have been running for way too long.

Either way, mom, I know that we’re always moving. Life doesn’t stop.
Time never stops either. We are always going and more often than not, we are often taking things for granted.

We fail to see the truth. Or we fail to notice how precious our time is, like, say, the moments of opportunity to dare or to say what we feel or feel what we say.
I think this is one of our biggest mistakes as people. This is the worst crime of the heart because this kind of theft is internal and the only thief in this case is me.

I go back to that bible verse. No one knows the hour or the day.
I think about how many times I saw someone for the last time and never knew this was going to be the last time I aw them. . .

And when that day comes or when we realize that time has changed the way we interact, we go numb. Time moves but we become stuck, as if to be frozen in the moment. I swear this is true for me.
The mind doesn’t always work fast enough to say what’s in our heart. and other things, like pride and ego can often kill our truthfulness or spoil fruits of someone else’s love.

Of course, the mind is always working. Our thoughts are always going and yes, of course, we are always thinking.
I suppose this means that we are always going to have ideas that come after the fact. Like now, for example.
I wish I could change the past.
But the past is gone and all that’s behind me is irretrievable.
As in gone, dead, and buried.

I wish I’d said more to you before you left.
I wish I showed more patience.
I wish I knew that the last time we talked was going to be the last time we ever talked.

I still speak out loud to you though.
I say my thoughts and I speak to the skies. But of course, I am unsure how far my voice travels, if at all, and I am more unsure if my voice reaches you wherever you are now.

So much has happened since you left. And days add. Time moves and life keeps changing.
I’ve grown older and somehow, this June marked ten years since you’ve been gone, —or should I say, gone in the flesh.

I need a day.
I need that feeling I had, like when I was young and you made your mashed potatoes and chicken cutlets.
They always made me feel better.
I suppose everyone has their favorite homemade dish that soothes the soul.

I need that feeling I used to have when you made your cinnamon toast or hot chocolate. I say this to you because while I’ve tasted these things since your departure, nothing tastes like the way things taste after you made them.

I was thinking about the ideas of moving again. I think about the ideas of going nowhere so that I can be somewhere unknown and if possible, I can recreate myself.
I was thinking about the times I had the chance to love someone, and of course, either I sabotaged this, or my best efforts were not my best efforts at all. I think about this and realize that at best, I am only human. And, in the end, I hurt someone more valuable than my words can describe.
Hence, this is my motivation behind this journal and this is my reason behind the truth in real fiction.

I know that somehow, deep down, I will end up where I am supposed to be. I know that there is a plan for me. And I know that no one can trick fate and that destiny is always on the scene.
I know this very well..

I am finding that I need to grow. I need to allow my dreams to come to fruition. Or more, I need to be true to my desires, and the same can be said about my wants and my needs.

I don’t remember the last time we had a conversation without a challenge.
I’m sorry. I really am.
I can’t remember the last time we spoke without anything being wrong. And again, I’m sorry, Mom.
I’m sorry that you were sick. I’m sorry that the role reversal was uncomfortable and strange and even more, I’m sorry that as people, times can cause us to be self-absorbed or self-centered.
And again, like you always told me—this is life.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a sign from you. Then again, signs can be relative. Or maybe “she” is a sign and reintroductions like ours are rare or far and few in-between.

I’d love to make her mine again. But love, self-will, hope and intent need to match on both sides so that our engines can fire on all cylinders.

And Mom . . .
I think about moving a lot.
I think about the beach at Fort Lauderdale. I think about the morning walks on the beach I used to take when I came down to take care of you.

I could use a walk like this.
I could use the feeling of sand in my toes and the sun on my face. I could use the warmth on my skin to which, I understand that warmth from within can endure and out glow the cold Decembers in New York.
And sure, Mom.
I know I will always be a New Yorker at heart. And I’d never thought that I could be happy anyplace else.
At the same time, I think I’d be happy to find myself in a small town. Perhaps I could be somewhere down south, where people say things like, “hello” to anyone they pass.

I could use another trip to New Mexico, or to Chimayo. I could use a nice drive through the dessert. And I could use the feeling of redemption and hope too.

Moms are the only ones who can help with these things.
That feeling of redemption, I mean.
But you are where you are and I am where I am.

I am thinking of “her” and the life she has now.
Send “her” some butterflies, Mom.
If you can.
I think she could use them as much as I can.
I wish life was different.
but like you said,
This is life, and this is the way life is.

I will close for now because life is calling me and so is work.
I am writing this prose as a stream or real fiction, which is not fictional to me, per se.
No, there is truth to our fiction, I suppose.
There is truth to the fact that there are times when we are judged or measured and weighed. And there are times when we are persecuted and sentenced.
I began this journal to defend myself and plea to the accusations or even the crimes against me.

I suppose this is more figurative than literal.
Or maybe this is me and I am looking to settle the arguments and soften the quarrels, so that I can find peace, and be happy.
I don’t want to argue or fight anymore.
Time is too short. Not to mention, I’ve had too many last conversations, without knowing that they were my last and final conversation.

I want to make you proud, Mom.
I really do.
I want to make “her” proud too.

Please help me.
Send me a sign.
If you can.
It would mean a lot to me.

And I’ll be good boy from now on.
Or at least, I’ll try harder.
I promise, Mom.

There is more to tell and more to say,
But for now, I will leave it at this.

Love always, your son

B—