Don’t speak ill of the dead. Do you follow this rule?
A while ago, I decided to write a few posts using letters I’ve received from different people over the years. I went looking for the letters. Most I found. The letters from my mother I didn’t. Hours passed as I tore through boxes looking. A few boxes I dug through five times.
Friends consoled me. You’ll find them. I’ll pray for you to find them. One friend–the one friend who knew my mother–said, “Maybe you’re not supposed to find them. Maybe there’s something in them you’re not ready to hear.”
Twenty years after my mom’s death and this may well be true. Some of the letters are comforting to read. Others I put away after I read them the first time and was afraid to ever look at them again. But I’m not 15 anymore. What made me cry then, may not make me cry now. Who’s to say my memory is true?
My husband found the box of letters under a pile of suitcases in back of the closet. Now I can read them. I’m glad I found them but not sure I want to read them. The ultimate rejection letters.
You know that feeling when you look into the mailbox and see your SASE staring back at you? I’m so tired of reading, “We wish you the best but we don’t like what you’ve done.”
That’s what I signed up for, isn’t it?