Letters to Myself, Chapter One

The door hadn’t changed much since the last time I had been home. Maybe a new coat of paint or two to hide the aging, but other than that it looked the same. As usual, the door was unlocked and I was able to walk right in. That had always been one of the benefits of growing up in this quaint, rural area. The house was unusually silent -- no television droning on in the background, no whirring of a dishwasher or thumping of clothes in a dryer. Then again, it had been awhile since I had been here. Five years. A lot had changed.

I hung my coat on the old wooden coat rack that forever had its place in the entryway. I remember running in with my brothers, Lane and Ryan, on a rainy day, our muddy shoes almost certain to ruin the new carpet my parents had put in. Almost telepathically came the voice from the kitchen. “Take your shoes off before you step one foot on that carpet.” I don’t know how she knew, but she always did. Out of respect, I slid my shoes off and stepped around the corner into the kitchen.

I could almost smell the prime rib and taste the chocolate éclairs that Mom always spoiled us with. She sure could cook. We used to tease her that our house was nothing more than “Mom’s Diner,” but she never seemed to mind. Three stools, one for each of us boys, still occupied the spots adjacent to the kitchen counter. Another memory of me hopping in the stool, and telling Mom about my day at school while she cooked one of her gourmet meals, popped into my head. She always seemed to turn and pause at just the right moments. She was good like that.

I walked a few steps out of the kitchen into the dining room. Bookshelves adorned with cookbooks still surrounded the oak table that sat in the center of the room. Now this was the center of the universe. At least it had been growing up. Eating dinner was a social event in our house. It was the one time that we would talk, and laugh. Laughing wasn’t always an easy thing for us to do, but for thirty minutes a day we would joke and smile until our stomachs hurt. Even Dad.

The thought of Dad laughing carried me into the living room. I hated this room. It was the mausoleum of the house. No talking was allowed -- heaven forbid we interrupt Dad’s western or some boring comedy on medics in the Korean War. This wasn’t what I hated though. I could always escape into my room and do my own thing there. No, this room was where Dad beat the crap out of me, usually in front of my screaming Mom and brothers. He would later tell me he was sorry, but not before adding that my sarcastic ways deserved a good tuning up. Breaking his rule of silence, I quietly mouthed “fuck off” to the image of my Dad in his recliner. Just like old times.

The door to my bedroom was shut. I wondered if it had been opened since the last time I had been home. A slight creak came from the hinges as I pushed on it. It was funny, now, looking at the room. A worn poster, the edges peeling from the wall, of Madonna in a wedding dress from her Like a Virgin days greeted me. Lord knows how many nights I would satisfy my teenage urges with her. A faded letterman's jacket, once bright red, now more of a rust color, hung on the edge of the dresser. Pictures of my life, from the time I was a boy until the last time I was home, were scattered throughout the room. I sat on the edge of the bed, and laid back like I once had long ago. One thing hadn't changed. The spattered pattern on the ceiling was still like a magical painting where I could put people, places and dreams.

I laid there for thirty minutes thinking about what had brought me here again after all these years. Sitting up, I collected myself, and noticed a large box on a shelf in the closet. Wow, I thought, knowing exactly what was in the container. I had almost forgotten about it. I went to it, and ran my fingers over the hard cardboard edges. I pulled it down. It seemed heavier than it had five years ago. I sat it on the edge of the bed and took the lid off. Stacked neatly in envelopes were letters -- hundreds and hundreds of them. Letters not from anyone. They were letters to myself. One day, when I was thirteen, I had sat down with the intent of starting a journal and ended up writing a letter addressed to yours truly. I did the same thing, usually after some momentous event in my life, for the next twenty years. Five years ago, I stopped, and brought the box to my parents house, thinking I would never see it again.

The sound of the front door opening startled me out of my trance. I put the lid back on the box. I'd get to the letters later. I walked out towards the living room and saw my father, old and faded like my Madonna poster, come slouching in. He looked up at me, weary and beaten. I'd never seen him so defeated. Weak.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

"Hi, Son," he said, his voice breaking.

"I suppose we should get going," I answered, heading towards the door.

He nodded his head and followed me. His eyes stayed directly on the road as we drove. It was awkward quiet, but it always had been with him and I. He pulled into the parking lot and we walked through a sea of black to our seats. A solemn man stood before us, and the sea stopped roaring. He spoke.

"We are here today to celebrate the life of Lea Anne West, devoted wife and mother."

I closed my eyes and cried.

Later that evening, I sat alone in my room, and picked a letter from the top of the box. It was the first one I ever wrote, and it hadn't been touched since the day I put the pen to paper. The envelope was stale and crisp, like a leaf on a dry autumn day. It fell apart as I ripped it open. I started to read the words - words of a lost, thirteen year old boy - and suddenly, I was taken back to a world I had long since forgotten. A world I didn't want to remember.