#task11

September, 2023

Dear Alina,

I’m writing this at a time where you’re still toddling about. Dark lashes fluttering as you string together sweet sentences in that high pitched voice most toddlers have. Excited to put on dresses and play with new dolls. I don’t know what age you’ll be when you’re given this letter, if you ever receive it at all, truthfully. It could sit in the bottom of a drawer, folded up and left to collect dust and fray beside old envelopes, sticky notes, and rusted paper clips. But I do hope that, one day, we’ll be at a place where we have a relationship. One where you’ll feel comfortable to share the softest parts of yourself and, in turn, be met with the compassion and vulnerability you have always deserved. Where I'll have the opportunity to build love and trust with you. All of this, only if you allow it. 

I’m familiar with the act of bleeding when it comes to love. The painful tearing of skin to reveal the red-white cage of bone trapping the muscle steadily pumping within. Pouring out warm crimson to land at the feet of friends and partners and family. An act of desperation. And loving you has been no easy feat. But never at your hand, though. Only my own. My mind was clouded upon hearing the news of your existence. Haunted with phantoms of my childhood and wounds ripped raw by your mother’s voice. It was never her fault, either. Only mine and mine alone. I look back on everything I’ve said and done since then, weighed down with grief and burdened with regret. Filled with shame that it may cleave me apart. No apology to you could ever suffice. No amount of cautious presents or hesitant requests to spend time with you or hold you could make up for time lost. Nothing can bring me back to that very moment—that cold winter afternoon in 2020–and erase my mistakes.

But I’m determined to try to start something new with you. I want to be there, to be present, to cheer you on from the sidelines. I want you to come visit and watch you design a room down the hall from mine to your heart’s content. To make us pancakes for breakfast, flour in your hair and on your hands, as we sing along to the radio together. I can see it and there’s nothing I want more than for you to share life with me, too.

I hold many things dear to me in my life: my mother, each and every one of my siblings, my closest friends, and most of all, you. And I hope to be deserving of your love in return. No matter how long it takes. 

With endless love,