Imperfections

Amberlyn holds the dusty box in her trembling hands. The smell of tattoo ink still lingering on her clothes overpowers her and she finds herself leaning into that smell, hoping it will ground her. She has always been a person of confidence; even when unsure of her next move, she knew that whatever path she chose, there would be no doubt in her decision. But now it feels as though the ground beneath her is unsteady, like being in the center of an earthquake. She rocks back and forth on the heels of her shoes and paces the walls of her New York City apartment, unable to sit still. She stares at those same walls, the gigantic paintings from her favorite artists fill the space, a mural of magnificence. She recites the artists from memory, then the style they used. She fixes her gaze on her favorite and is struck by its beauty as if it’s her first time seeing it. The mirage of colors pop out at her, their elegance calling her name. She tries to envision a world where her art is framed in someone else’s shitty apartment and smiles to herself, because above all else: she craves a space where her passion can live. The box, carefully placed on the coffee table, entices her and she attempts to take a deep breath, but can’t quite remember how. The oxygen her body searches for gets lost in a place of uncertainty. She puts her hand to her heart without thinking, unsure of what to do next. Ever since she was a child, she’s stood on her own two feet, able to solve every obstacle the world threw at her; she did this with pride. She has never needed anyone, but there is one person she’s always wanted—still wants. One person she loves more than anyone. Loved. Her grandmother. As she thinks of her, she can feel her entire body ache at the absence of her. She feels she’s being pulled toward where her grandmother should be. Like gravity. Nothing in her being has accepted or even understood the loss. There’s always a moment before she wakes when she forgets she has to live in a world without the person who kept her whole. Like her brain cannot comprehend that she no longer adds to the space of Amerlyn’s world. She still goes to call her when she’s created something new, or a client leaves a good tip. At random moments, the paralyzing agony of that loss punches her in the chest, and she feels as though her heart’s exploding from the emptiness. In those moments, she reaches for her grandmother to hold her up, like she always did, and has to endure losing her all over again. She squeezes her eyes shut so tightly that she sees colors. Her grandmother loved colors, so much so that she could never choose a favorite. When she found the box containing her grandmother’s old letters, she was unsure if she would be able to read the words she’d written, knowing that those words were all that was left of her. But she can barely breathe, she misses her so much, and she needs to hear her if only the echo of her.

She opens her eyes and walks slowly to the table where the box sits. She takes it in her hands once more before sitting down on her saggy orange futon. She holds it so carefully as if it were made of glass, opens it without letting herself spiral into all of the reasons why she shouldn’t, and chooses the first one her hand lands on. She unfolds it, revealing the deep creases on the page as if it’s sat untouched for years. She wonders if her grandmother was the last person to touch it, and her eyes blur at this thought. She looks down and feels the tears stream down her face.

1) Amberlyn,

Her breath stops short. The letter was written for her. Were they all written for her? She takes another deep breath as her eyes search her apartment for answers to questions she will never be able to ask.

She can barely see the paper through her tears, but she can’t imagine not reading the words that were written for her. She looks down at her hands as they cling to her lifeline, and for a moment, she lets herself be overcome by all of the grief she hadn’t let herself feel…but just for a moment. She looks at the brick wall in front of her, noting the texture and reddish brown color. She focuses on its imperfections, willing it to give her strength. After a few moments, she straightens her posture and slowly wipes her tear-stained face before continuing the only thing she felt she had left of the person she loved the most.

I’m writing you this because I want to share this moment with you. I just witnessed one of the most extraordinarily beautiful things of my entire life, and as far as I can tell, it was one of the best moments I’ll ever see: your birth. As you know, for reasons far too complicated and painful to explain, I wasn’t awake for your mother’s birth, and unfortunately, that was the theme of our relationship—being a part of one another so completely but just out of reach. But the first thing I thought when I looked into your eyes, besides how tiny and fragile they looked, was that I would not make that same mistake with you. I always told myself when she was growing up that it felt like we were worlds apart, and as she continued to grow, I just kept saying that I could’ve tried harder, could’ve done more, loved more. But I promise you, little one, there will be no could with you. I will try harder. I will do more. I will give you the love I wish your mother and I could’ve given each other. This life that you just came into…it is so beautiful, almost as beautiful as you. But I also won’t lie to you. It won’t always feel beautiful. Sometimes you’ll have to work harder to see the beauty in the imperfections. You may have to work harder than most…like your mother. Sometimes it will feel impossible, but that is life. It is beautiful, and agonizing, and extraordinary, and cruel. And it can be all of those things and more, all at the same time. Sometimes it may feel like you’re drowning in the impossibility of it. Sometimes it may feel like you’re the only one gasping for air while everyone else is above water. But I promise you, you are not alone. Not even for a second. Because I will be there. I’m sitting next to you while you breathe your tiny breaths next to all of the other babies breathing their tiny breaths, and I can’t imagine ever seeing anything as beautiful because I’ve never understood the word until now. I’ve never seen color or understood joy or fear until the moment you became you. I have never known breath until you took yours for the first time.

I didn’t get to raise your mother, but I will raise you. I will raise you up until you feel the warmth of the sun on your face and hold you there until the glow of the stars shines in your eyes. I will never let go, never. I promise you. I’ve given these letters to a friend and instructed her to hold onto them for a while. I need you to live in the present and not the past. I want you to become you without any influence from even me. I will not hold you back with the mistakes of my past, because they are just that: mine. You will make your own mistakes. Experience your own heartbreak and agony, and I wish I could protect you from that, just as I wish I could’ve protected your mother from those same things. But it is only when we are overcome by the imperfections of life that we start to see the extraordinary beauty in it. But when you’re ready, these letters will be here for you. So that you will never have to doubt the love that I feel for you, and you will never have to feel alone. I want you to see through my eyes—to see your beauty, but only when you’ve seen it through yours first.

My Amber…my love.

Your grandmother.

My home, Amberlyn added to herself almost thoughtlessly. She turns the letter over to see one final note:

For her: when I’m gone. When she’s lived. When she’s lost. When she’s ready.

She rereads the letter until her grandmother’s words are ingrained into her. She can feel her heart ache, but instead of letting that pain consume her, she leans into it and feels all of the anguish. She lets herself feel the fear of failing all of the hard work her grandmother put into raising her. She lets that fear paralyze her for a moment. What if I let her down? She closes her eyes and lets all of it take over her body. She sits with this for longer than she ever has before, because she now knows that it is only the act of letting in every imperfect moment that she can see the beauty. Just like she did.

At that moment, she pictures her grandmother’s eyes. The shape of them, their color, and is transported back to the part in the letter where her grandmother felt as though she first saw beauty. I understand, she thinks. And she is no longer seeing solely through her own eyes, but through her grandmother’s as well.