Mailing Memories

No, I’m not colorblind
I know the world is black and white
I try to keep an open mind
But I just can’t sleep on this tonight

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can’t take the speed it’s moving in
I know I can’t
But honestly, won’t someone stop this train?

Don’t know how else to say it
Don’t want to see my parents go

I’m one generation’s length away
From fighting life out on my own

John Mayer. Stop This Train

(This post is part of a 30-Day Journaling Project that I am participating in. Thank you to Suleika Jaouad of The Isolation Journals for provide the prompt.)

Day 16. Look through your photographs – maybe in old albums, maybe on your phone – and chose a person to write to. It could be someone living or someone who has died. Write them a letter, allowing the words to flow as they will. Then decide: Save it, or send it – and maybe a copy of the photograph too.

Dear Dad,

In the comforting darkness of the passenger cabin, surrounded by the soothing sound of the airplane’s constant hum, I write this letter to you.

I have been putting off this task, have been avoiding this writing prompt. So much I want to say, but I don’t know how. Words inside my head crash into each one another like atoms colliding. So many emotions, but I feel numb. So many thoughts, yet I feel dumb.

I spent the last eight days with you, watching you disappear slowly. We went from having Easter Lunch together to watching you suffer in a sterile hospital bed. Went from greeting each other as father and daughter to saying farewell with nothing more than a gentle squeeze of your hand.

I am on my way back to what I call home now. It is not easy to leave. Not easy to leave you. But it feels like I have nothing else to give. Feels like I have done everything I could right now. I am so grateful I got to sit with you and listen to you. Got to hold your hand and gently talk to you. Got to look after you for a short little while at least. In the end, it felt like I had no more to give. I have to go to find the strength to come back soon. Even if that means you will have left by then.

On my 22-hour journey around the globe, I watched an insane amount of reality shows on the tiny airplane screen in front of me – my comfort zone. 90 Day Fiancé (UK Edition!), Say Yes to the Dress (an old-time favourite), and various foodie shows. Insanely mind-numbing, but strangely comforting.

In one of the shows, something was said that struck a chord with me and got me to finally sit down and write this letter to you, Dad. Allow me to let the words and tears flow. And it went something like this:

“Even though I didn’t always have the greatest relationship with my parents – if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I am not me without all the experiences we had together – positive and bad.”

So here is my letter to you, Dad, to say thank you for all the experiences we shared – good and bad. For making me the person I am today.

Thank you for taking me for hikes and bike rides, though I am sure I complained plenty about each one of them. For taking me to the pool every Sunday morning, where you would swim your laps, while I would spend most of my time under the hot shower. For taking me to more churches than I cared to see. For introducing me to Beethoven’s 5th and Irish Coffee. Thank you for instilling in me a love for travel and adventure. For supporting my crazy dreams, no matter how outrageous they were.

While spending the last few days in your apartment, I found a big red folder with my name on it. I opened it to have a look inside. In it, I found all the blog posts I had written in the past, printed in colour and filed in no particular order.

When I left for Australia, you asked me whether I could still be a good mother to my children from that far away. Back then, I did not know what to say. In fact, I remember feeling a little irritated and annoyed by your question. Thinking about it again as I looked through the paper copies of my blog posts, I thought that every parent probably does what they think is best at that moment in time. Both, you and I.

And then I closed the thick red folder and put it back on the shelf in your deserted apartment.

Thank you, Dad, for reading my posts. For reading this letter, though I will never mail it. Thank you for being my dad. For making me who I am today. Miss you already.

Gisela