Dear Melina,

I write this love-letter to you when I am old enough to be your grandmother, and when Grandma was my age. Time is a funny thing. It unspools before us and then folds in on itself to be carried forward into the memories of body and soul. You are eleven years old in this memory. You are a child on the cusp of womanhood, and I am a woman on the cusp of old age. 

You don’t know me yet, but I know you. I carry you inside of me like a Matryoshka doll. I remember what you have done, and who you are, and what you will experience right up until this minute as I write these words back to who I was when I was you.

I want to tell you that I love you. I want to tell you the things Mom has not and will not say. Not because she doesn’t know them (she does), and not because she does not love you (she loves you very much), but because the words and their telling scare her. They demand too much of her. She cannot say them to save her life or yours. This will never change. In the week of her death in the month of your sixtieth birthday, she will tell you she knows you want her to talk to you, but she “just can’t.” 

Here is a thing it took me fifty years to understand about Mom: she has a gift for seeing what is wrong. This makes her a very good nurse, and sometimes, it makes it hard to be her daughter. 

I want you to know you are not your mistakes or shortcomings. Your hair is not a mess; it is beautiful. You are not your math grades, or bra size, or sibling rivalry. You are not what Mom sees, or what other people think. You are whole and strong and still unfinished. And I am very proud of you.

Because Mom sees what is wrong and what she fears will go wrong, you must learn to see for yourself what is right. If you don’t, you will always struggle with the belief that you are not good enough. That is a lie, and I know exactly when that lie will hook you.

It will happen one summer afternoon when the daylight lingers into evening, and a warm breeze carries the sound of the neighborhood children across the windowsill into your room. You will lie on your bed reading Anne of Green Gables and eating purple plums so ripe the juice runs from the corner of your mouth to your jawline. You will place the book, splayed open, on your soft belly so your hands are free to wipe the sticky sweetness away, and your attention will shift from Anne and Diana and Mrs. Rachel Lynde to the shouts and laughter outside. 

They will be playing kickball, or riding bikes and teasing each other. You will recognize their individual voices, Lisa and Lori, Ricky and Cathy, Billy and Debbie. And in that moment, you will wonder if you missed something. You will remember all the times your parents told you to “go outside and play” as you sat contentedly with your nose in a book. You will wonder if there is something wrong with the happiness you find in story, imagination, and a few good friends. There isn’t, but you will believe there is, and the lie will have you. You will decide to be popular, though you won’t know how, and you will be terrible at it.

You will try to please others. You will think it rude to say no to another helping of lasagna at Donna M’s house, and then throw up in the bushes as you walk home. The next day, Donna will tell your friends how much you ate, and they will all agree “you are a pig.”

Soon after, you will get chicken pox. When you get back to school two weeks later, no one will talk to you because “you are a pig.” You will be confused, hurt, and lonely. And you will stay that way.

 In another year, a boy will hold your hand and try to kiss you during a dusk game of hide and seek. You will panic and run home to your safe, pink bedroom, holding your fear and newborn desire like a secret.

You will read books too old for you, and dress in ways that show off your developing body. You will feel a sense of wanting when boys and men stare and shout things at you. But honey, you will not understand the threat in their wanting until you are a few years older, and they pin you down while your innocence drips from your eyes in tears of rage. This will all happen while you are still a child. None of it will be your fault. No adult or older sister or cousin will tell you the truth. They all have their own pain. No one will help you see yourself as whole and complete and enough, and you will hurt, and be hurt, and grow into me. And we will stumble along until, finally, we learn to love ourselves again.

Here is what that late-love taught me, and what I would share with you if only I could unfold time and sit with you to talk.

Trust your intuition. I know it frightens your parents, but they believe you, and you should believe it. 

Follow your desire to understand the mysteries of the universe and the connection you feel with God. There is a reason you love these stories.

Mrs. Parmalee was right when she told you that you are a very good writer. Words are your art, and you will use them to make sense and beauty out of your life. Ask for a journal and start writing.

Math will always make you anxious, but you will pass your classes and get on with life. When Mom asks why you only got a B in math, tell her it is because it is hard. 

Don’t go to see the Dark Shadows movie. It will scare you to pieces and you won’t sleep well for weeks.

Learn to say “no!” and “no, thank you.” 

Romance and sex are for grown-ups. Don’t be in a rush for either.

Some people are mean, or untruthful, or uncaring; that is who they are.

Be kind, honest, and care-full; that is who you are.

You are very smart. Be okay with that. 

You will never be popular with superficial people, but people who love the depths will love you. Be very okay with that.

Don’t fall in love with love.    

Fall in love with what is real and true about yourself.

Fall in love with what is real and true about others.

Fall in love with what is real and true in the world.

I will end this love-letter with one wish for you, and for me: the same summer breeze that called you away from yourself so long ago will return you to me on this rainy May day when the lilacs bloom and their scent suspends in the air like an offered prayer.

-Melina Rudman

Melina Rudman is a writer, educator, spiritual director, and gardener. Melina holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Bay Path University. She is the author of the book Sacred Soil: A Gardener's Book of Reflection published by Anamchara Books in April, 2020. Her writing has also been published in Ovunque Siamo, The BeZine, and US Catholic magazines.