Letter of Introduction

Dear Hannah,

.

I’m writing this letter to tell you a little about myself,

though I’m unsure

of my qualifications for the task.

There are so many things I could say, but maybe

it will be the things that I don’t say that speak the loudest.

I suppose we shall both find out.

.

The problem with telling one’s life story – well, the first problem –

is deciding where to begin.

Do I start with the good parts,

or go back to the beginning, before I was born?

Which are the good parts and which are the bad parts?

The longer I live, the harder it is to tell.

.

The truth is, I don’t write many letters these days.

Most of the letters I’ve ever written, though, were to my mom.

She did not live in a house with electricity until she was 15 years old.

That was in Arkansas,

which sounds like the punchline to a joke,

but many of the stories aren’t funny.

.

They were sharecroppers, picking cotton by hand.

In winter, the snow would blow through the cracks in their house.

They could have done better, except

my granddad wasn’t the kind to do better. He died when my mom was 13.

She doesn’t know exactly why he died, but suspects

he may have gotten more than just drunk one of those times he disappeared

to spend all the money they earned picking that cotton.

.

Your guess is as good as mine

what any of that has to do with me,

but I imagine it does.

My mom is 83 now. She never drank, or smoked,

and I assure you she never picked another boll of cotton

once she cleared the Arkansas state line.

.

Are we shaped by the things we never did?

Are we the products of lessons unlearned?

The calculations seem impossible;

the angles and curves of a strange geometry.

So many variables; for every answer, more questions.

The sum of the equation always catches me by surprise.

.

With my regards,

Randy