Hello. There is an excellent project being run in the north-east involving people writing letters to themselves from either a past, present or future view-point, so I thought I would add my own here.
I am writing to you, in your tiny crib of ageless wonder. It’s the day you were born, small, special girl, first born grandchild, apple of your family’s eye.
Where did it go wrong, dear girl? A free spirit left in chains. Your parents loved and nurtured you, now you are losing someone else’s game. My child, how spoilt you were with love. Remember, blessings should not be taken for granted like Gran said so many times. I write, now, a crabbit and parched octogenarian, though I am in my mid-thirties. Wisdom comes with experience and time the great healer, so was it to be.
I see you in the trunk road of life, trying to plough your way through, how bullies broke you down and knocked your confidence.
I say to you now. You are beautiful. Do not let them destroy your dignity.
They might have broken your spirit, but let them not take your self-worth.
The words your family told you, proved to be true. Though once a friendless loner, now you have them in abundance.
You did not see how you would ever marry, but you have a lovely husband and wonderful son.
My mirror of age is clouded with cataracts, yet still I see the roads you took and didn’t, the mistakes you made and wisdom gained.
Now I sit in my easy chair, comforted by times changing pace, as I look at my clock face. Its quarter to three, time for a cup of tea.
The carer is coming. I gaze nostalgically at the picture of my son grown up, soon to be married, and await my husband’s return. He is getting bread from the shop. I clutch the picture of my now grown up boy from when he was six, to my breast and know that whatever mistakes I made in my youth, I did right by him.