Awaiting Metamorphosis

I had known the story for many years before I saw the proof of it. That is, until one day a couple of years ago, when my mom quietly put this letter in my hand. Sentimentality isn't always something that springs from happy memories. It has its roots in our history, and history doesn't care about our feelings.

My mom found this letter written by her mother to her husband (mom's dad) in a small pile of her mother's belongings stored at my Great Aunt Beatty's home. Beatty was my grandmother's sister and my mom's favourite aunt. Apparently, when my grandmother passed away, most of my grandmother's belongings were either quickly sold or thrown out by my grandfather who wasn't particularly sentimental himself (or, so I've deduced from the many stories I've been told over the years).

Among the items my great aunt had saved, was this letter. It was written in 1925. My mom was born in 1926. The letter speaks of a pregnancy, and, sadly, about failed attempts to end that pregnancy. This letter is about my mom before my mom was born. And, her mom before she became a mom. It bears harsh witness to a scared woman who had lost a sister in childbirth, confessing her dark secrets to a man who declared near the end of her life that he had never loved her. My mom had kept this letter, hidden, for over sixty years, bringing it with her from place to place in the same way I carry my own treasures. She handed it to me in a whisper, her anxious fingers passing it to me like it was a confidential document holding secrets that held the potential to bring down an empire.

I carry a story of my own, somewhat parallel to this one of my mom's. My mom didn't learn that she was pregnant with me until she was nearly six months along. She was 44 years of age, not in the best of health, and had two teenaged boys. She wasn't married and wasn't sure she wanted to be tied to the father of this child, my dad, because of this pregnancy. She had suffered fibroid tumors very badly for years and was told by more than one doctor that it was not possible for her to get pregnant. Realizing her body was changing, however, my mom made multiple appointments with her doctor, who steadfastly insisted she was not pregnant. Until, near the six-month mark, they did a test that confirmed I was in there, growing. She told me that she would not have gone through with the pregnancy had she known about me earlier, although she said that when she saw me thought I was beautiful and must have been given to her for a reason. I can't even put into words how I felt hearing that I wasn't wanted. I was young the first time I heard that story. As an adult, I understand and sympathize with where my mom was coming from. I'm not sure I needed to know that truth though.

But, I do. And, it's a piece in the puzzle of who I've been, who I've become, and who I'm becoming. A small piece. I'm glad I can't hold proof of that part of my own story in my hands. I'm ready to let go of the power that story holds over my sense of self-worth. I will not be carrying this letter, in this form, with me for the rest of my life. At some point in the not too distant future, I will incorporate it into a piece of art. Something meaningful, hopefully, that will not need to be a whisper or a secret but will sing boldly of the resilience of the human spirit.