Page 129 of Our Long Days
“Or have you finished it?” she asks softly.
“H-how do you know about the list?”
“Your father, of course. He came to bed the evening you wrote it, muttering and complaining about his baby girl getting a tattoo.” Sadness lines her smile. “Once he calmed down, hetold me about all the other items. He was reluctant to let you date, let alone fall in love, but I assured him if you found a love like ours, you’d be safe and cherished. That’s exactly how he made me feel every day, for thirty-three years.”
I swallow. “I completed the list.”
“Good. I wondered when Booth was going to give it to you.”
I’m having an out-of-body experience.
“You know about the letters?” My voice cracks at the edges.
She tilts her head. “Who do you think left them in the closet for Patrick to find?”
As if she hasn’t just delivered a shocking revelation, my mom ambles out of the room. A few minutes later, she returns with my dad’s old camera.
And an envelope.
I hold my breath, scared to move in case this is a cruel dream and a single movement will drag me to consciousness. The smooth white paper rests in my clammy hands, confirming this is real, and I release a shaky exhale.
“Mom,” I croak. “W-what is this?”
Peering down at me with nothing but adoration, she strokes a hand over my head. “You know what it is, sweetheart. I was under strict instructions on when to give you this.”
“When I finish the list?”
“No, Florence.” She taps two fingers to my heart. “When you stopped trying to prove yourself to the world and accepted who you are.”
Tears well in my eyes as she steps away, blowing me a kiss. “I’ll leave you alone with your dad. Give him my love.”
The featherlight envelope is like lead in my open palms. Bitter-sweet emotion swirls in my veins. I hesitate to break the seal, as if doing so is the end of a chapter. And maybe it is. Months have passed since Booth delivered the list, and a lifetime of changes have occurred since then. What hasn’t changed is me.
I’m messy. Easily distracted. Emotional. Short-tempered. And loved.
Not in spite of those traits, but because of them.
Paper tears. Handwriting belonging to the man who taught me how to ride a bike, tie my shoelaces, and bandaged my grazed knees fills my vision.
Hello Buttercup,
Last to join the motley crew. The final branch to our tree. The reasons for all my gray hairs.
Ironically, yours is the first letter I’m writing. Don’t ask what came over your sentimental old man. I’m sure your mother has the answer. She always does.
I’d planned to share words of wisdom and direct you on the journey that is life, but when have you ever listened to anyone?
I suppose my advice is to spread those wings, make mistakes, learn from them, and make them again. I’ll always be here to catch you if you fall, but if I’m not, there’s an army at the ready to fill my spot.
Don’t aim to please. Aim to be happy. Write your lists because achieving them will bring you happiness, not to prove your worth or success. Change them. Throw them away. There’s no set path in life, Florence. You create the road you walk along.
In my old age, there’s only one thing left on my list. I don’t plan on checking it off, because it’s not something I’ll ever stop doing.
1) Love my wife and children
The world is your lobster, as you once said. I can’t wait to see you conquer it.
Be loud. Be proud. Be you.
