Letter To Tess

I always listened closely to my mother. I had to sometimes interpret between the lines. I had to know what she wanted to say, but didn’t. I had to read the darkness in her eyes, notice the slight gleam when she talked about my father. I had to see the slight remnant of terror when she talked about ‘the flare’. I had to hear the tinge of regret for not seeing nor appreciating everything she once had, and not acknowledging what she actually had to lose. Life, as she explained to me, was like a utopia, but she didn’t notice then.

I am writing this not just to you, but to future generations, hoping that someday we will build back up as free people. Someday we can have what my mother experienced long ago.

According to my mother, we had electricity that powered the world. We could once walk into a building and choose from thousands of food items. We could go anywhere in the world on planes that flew so fast we got there within hours. If we were too cold or too warm, we could turn a switch on a machine and adjust the air in the room to the perfect temperature. Thanks to this technology called the internet and what they called smartphones, we could communicate anywhere in the world, have whatever we desired delivered to us. We had everything we needed, but always wanted more. We didn’t have to suffer like we do now.

What completely baffles me is that she said we once had incredible freedoms. We could work anywhere we wanted, go anywhere we wanted, have as many children as we wanted, and we weren’t monitored. She says no one appreciated their freedom then. They just didn’t know better before the flare. She teared up at this point. I couldn’t imagine it. What a world they had! I regretfully have to say, there was a time when I was seven that I called my mom a liar. When she spoke about a holiday called Christmas, that was the tipping point. I couldn’t believe it any longer. How could there be a time when children would wake up in a warm bed and find surprise gifts under the tree? My mom was crazy. I had seen others have to go to the clinic and stay to have therapy for saying these wild things. She was sick.-- But she wasn’t. She had to prove it. So, she risked her life and mine when she introduced me to the underground group called the B.T.F. (a.k.a. Before the Flare) historians. Regularly we would visit together and learn about the life my mom talked about. My sweet daughter, Tess, you must keep it going. Keep this letter. Hide it well. This group has small tribes every ten miles, in the North, South, East, and West. Their groups are growing. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands. They are not monitored. They live in secret. They inhabit tunnels and caves, or old basements in ancient buildings. For security they ask at the entrance that you show a relic. Your grandmother got us in the door with a heart-shaped locket. It is passed down from generation to generation along with the information I am writing now. Make sure the ‘Uniforms’ do not find out. They will bring you to the clinic immediately. Be careful who you tell. Some people in your group may seem like you can trust them, but it could be a trap. Do not let anyone have this locket until you pass it down in our family. It is literally the key to learning about the past and future possibilities.

On a spring day like this when the weather starts to warm and the leaves are budding, I start to feel nostalgic. I think of the day my mother gave this locket to me. It was the last time I could see her. It was t-day (termination day). We shortened it to t-day because it was too difficult to say termination. We knew she was coming up on this. She was the age limit determined by the Uniforms: 75 years old. She was no longer deemed an asset to society. She was too weak for the elders’ duties and too frail to make the migration to the south in the fall. She was stricken with debilitating arthritis. She had lived a full life. She could now have a private moment with me, pass down one small personal item, and say what she wanted to say before her ‘drink’.

I remember that plastic, somehow cold, sterile alcohol smell from her transition room. I remember being guided through the door by the guards. The two guards left me with her for twenty minutes. Ten minutes later I knew they would be pushing the gurney out of the room with a lifeless form under the sheet like they did with my father two years earlier.

I couldn’t cry when I walked in. I wanted to be strong. No.-- Truth be told, my heart had been hardened by the Uniforms, the labor, and the control. I shutdown emotionally. Just like you have, Tess. But, I was still curious on what my mother would say and what she would give me to pass on. I thought I remembered what it would be though.

First glance, sitting upright in the twin bed, she looked tired. Maybe she was tired from the years of forced labor, tired of being oppressed, or tired from this dark existence. Then, there was daylight from the somewhat cloudy sky hitting her cheek from the small, square, curtainless window. The beautiful face I remembered as a child was now covered in deep wrinkles with sunken eyes. But, as I looked in her eyes my mother was still there. I saw her familiar gray eyes, that coy little glint. A smile surfaced as she reached her hand out to me. I studied her white frizzy, unkempt hair. When did it lose its color? It had been years since I was allowed to see her. She looked happy to see me; even for this.

Her first words, Tess, were asking how you were. I said fine. I told her you were nearly fifteen, charted by the Uniforms to be married in less than a year, and tending the crops. You were absolutely beautiful. I told her I taught you all the recipes she used to make for me. She was so glad. She squeezed my hand with hers. A light touch I will not forget.

In her inevitable optimism, she laughed about the guards outside. “Do they think I will run?” She laughed. The cool gray gleam showed in her eyes. The white sheet was pulled up to her chest. She had only one blanket, but she looked comfortable somehow; perhaps because I was with her at that moment.

The next question she asked more seriously and my stomach tightened. “Do you remember when you were seven years old and you called me a liar?” And she gently smiled.

“ I do.” I replied, feeling embarrassed at my naivety back then.

She then reached for the one item she had for me.

“It is yours now. The key to get in.”

I can’t say I was surprised. The gold locket looked just like I remembered. It was heart-shaped, on a gold chain, engraved with antique scrollwork. Coincidentally, as she pulled it from under the pillow the sun peeked through the clouds outside and into the window onto the golden surface of it. The heart lit up with a flash for just a second or two as if it just gained a new power. We looked each other in the eyes. These were indeed our last moments together. I suddenly felt a twinge of emotion. My eyes watered a little bit, just like they did when you were born. A quick glimmer of humanity broke through the barriers of oppression.

My mother’s voice hardened. She saw my softness coming to the surface. She sternly said, “ Find them. Keep the connection going.”

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, knowing the responsibility had been officially passed to me now. My mother literally gave me her heart. It signified many things to me. Even though I had been oppressed, my emotions chilled, I was still a good person, a good mother, and I still felt love. The heart reminded me I was still human; and I was a good one. Like you, Tess.

“I will.” I replied in a strong, sturdy voice.

Of all the days with her I will remember this moment best. She looked so happy from that point. Her cold hand even warmed in mine. I looked in her eyes imagining the change she had endured from having grown up in the old days to now. How did she manage to live under the Uniforms in her many last years, knowing, at best, she had seventy-five years to live? How could she live barely surviving on limited resources, no internet, no power, very little comforts? Why didn’t she run? Why didn’t she join the BTF historians and become part of the underground? She once answered by saying she was already registered with the Uniforms and she was too scared to try to run. She said she managed and survived because she had me.

My answer is the same, Tess. You are the reason I kept going. Your son will now be your reason. I hope one day you will show him the underground and the historians will give him more knowledge and strength. Please continue our family tradition.

One more thing about the locket; it has a picture inside. It holds a glimpse from the past. Before we had to migrate to the south before winter every year with only backpacks, before the outage, my mother said they used to have houses and parts of buildings where they stored lots of possessions. The government didn’t control their possessions except for things like weapons. Imagine that! They used to have hundreds of pieces of clothing, bags, and jewelry. This locket is something my mother had along with many other pieces of jewelry. Inside is a picture of her and your grandfather. Notice she is wearing lots of jewelry and sitting at a table with other people. It was their wedding anniversary, I believe she once said. People used to gather together and celebrate and have fun. They weren't monitored. I know it is difficult to fathom. Perhaps some day it will be like that again. So much has changed.

On this day I am not only nostalgic, but I am watching the clouds out the window now. I am watching for people walking by. And I am watching for the guards to bring you into my room. I am sitting upright in the old twin bed. One sheet, one blanket. Maybe this is the same room she was in that day. Maybe it is even the same bed. The window has a white sheer curtain now. Perhaps they scavenged it from an abandoned home. Also, it doesn’t smell so much like alcohol in the air. Actually, it smells like lilacs a little. Perhaps there’s a new bush growing under the window. Good changes! Keep the hope alive!

Carry on.

Much love always...