Wash your hands after using the bathroom, before using the bathroom if you’ve been outside first, before dinner, after playing with any toys, instruments, or feeding your fish. Even if you’re about to take a bath, if you’ve just done
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I remember being you. Being you, with your hands tucked under your thighs in skinny jeans that never quite fell to the ankle. I remember those hands, & how they wanted to wander over into his & how you told him with your lips that you would always wonder what it would be like to kiss him, but your lips stayed tucked together. He said he'd always feel that way too, and you let the moment pass, utterly kissless.
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I am so sorry everyone deconstructs and changes your beautiful,
complicated name. The pieces of your soft “ca” and lopping “o”
rebranded into southern alternatives like Caroline or Coraline or Carol
or even Carly once, after the doctor said the only Carolyn he’d ever heard
Dear me from one year ago,
I regret to inform you that tomorrow will be one of the worst days of your life.
Tomorrow you will reset the password to log into your joint bank account. You asked him for the password many, many times. He always says, “Oh it’s on my phone… I don’t remember it…I will get it to you when I have time…I can’t do it right now.”
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There is no time for pleasantries, let’s get to it.
You will fight a good fight from a place of absolute terror. You will list improbable reasons why you might be the person for whom antidepressants just really aren't the solution. You will throw pseudoscience and bad journalism against a woman with twenty years’ experience and a prescription pad. And then you will give in.
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Dear Trish,
It was so annoying how Marlee slid on her jeans, buttoned them easily, and pulled a cream-colored, cable-knit sweater over her head, ready to party. She didn’t wonder if the pants were too tight, if they made her look fat, if the shirt covered the soft rolls of her stomach.
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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.
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At this time, your purpose is unclear. But eventually, it will be apparent why you are here on Earth. I know every day is routine – your forty-five-minute commute to your job, the mundane workday, the chaotic drive back home through traffic to smoke weed in your living room, then eat something and fall asleep.
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Dear Teenage Deb,
Coming of age in the 1970s, you sometimes marvel at the inconceivable notion of one day living in the twenty-first century, of being forty-three (ancient!), when chimes clang and horns blare, welcoming a fresh numeral on humanity’s odometer. However, you also doubt the probability of living to the year 2000, since the Rapture is bound to occur at any moment.
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Dear Past Me,
Congratulations. You are flying high and holding on tight. From the perspective of those on the ground, it seems like you could be floating up there forever, gripping the strings of a colorful bunch of balloons, symbols of success in a society that requires outward markers. One of yours is filled with the confidence of a post-graduation job as a public defender, where you will save the lives of your clients and probably fix the entire criminal justice system while you’re at it.
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Dear Eleven,
The fire will come and change you. I could tell you to brace yourself, but I know you won’t.
You will see the smoke rising over the hill from your seat on the school bus. You will ignore the driver’s objection and get off the bus at the wrong stop.
I love that you’re still a tomboy as you enter middle school. That you still play pickup touch football with the guys in the neighborhood and don’t care about makeup. You’re very smart, but maybe a little naïve about other people’s motivations. I’m hoping you’re old enough to receive the advice I want to give you in this letter.
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Where you feel most content is the essence of who you are. The moments in life when what you are doing engulfs you, and for a second, life is simple. Find that, let it become you. Let it never be taken from you or forgotten about as life and her worries take over. Promise me that, young one.
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June 23, 1985
Dear Lourdes the Younger,
I’m sending you this love and care letter on your sixteenth birthday in the hope that it will save you from more pain and heartache. You don’t know it yet, but this summer will irrevocably change your life in ways you can’t imagine. You will fall in love, fight for love, and then, hide your love.
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Dear Pubescent Me,
This is a sensitive topic, I know. I know how much pain and embarrassment it gives you. I know how you avert from peoples’ gazes, maintain distance, never keep your face still. Your hands gesture and distract—all to deter their eyes from lingering. They linger and they see. I won’t even name it, because naming it makes it real and forever, and you can’t fathom living with it forever.
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Dear Younger Connie,
I’m sorry I tried to starve you.
I tried to starve you by going on diets. “Going on” sounds like there’s actually an itinerary and destination, but with diets, the finish line slides out of reach. I took you to weigh-ins. I made you write down every piece of food you ate. I made you go to bed hungry.
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Dear child,
It was never your fault.
When your mom left, you were a forgotten consequence, but never the cause. She chose drugs because of her own weakness, not your self-described inadequacies. You were a toddler who lived every moment with a full heart and a pocket full of hope, but she was too far gone to bask in that light.
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Dear Scarlett,
I want to tell you not to go to the bar that night. I want to say, “Just stay in with a good book.” But I know you. If I tell you, you'll only be more determined to do it. So get dolled up, go to the bar, listen to the band, and dance your heart out. But listen. Listen when your best friend tells you to stay away from him (they work together and there have been rumors).
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Dear Lisa,
We regret to inform you that you did not end up living in the South of France nor were you accepted to Harvard Law School. We further apologize that you never became the smartest most beautiful girl in the world. We are sorry you never went to the Olympics in skiing and never became a pro tennis player. You never married your soul mate. You never got super rich.
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Dear Zebib,
I hope this letter makes sense. It is from the future, from you at thirty, from a land far far away. 2019 sounds impossible even to my ears, like spaceships and dystopia. Did the letter get warped in time travel? Maybe the words ran together, like ink on parchment, held out in rain.
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