Another pause. Journey stops talking when she’s at a loss for words. She won’t sugar-coat things, and she knows if there’s nothing good to say, why bother.
Me:It’s fine. I’m not upset. I guess it wasn’t anything crazy, or you would have made me read mine, though.
A couple of minutes pass before I get another response.
Journey:I know why Brett wants you to read it tonight. You should.
Part of me wants to yell at her for being so distant sometimes, but the other part is still reminding myself how differently we both think. Journey does things on her personal timeline, and I can assume she was having a horrible day or night and needed the letter to fix whatever she was going through. I hope the letter did so for her.
I have paced the house a hundred times, chewed half of my fingernails down to the skin and have consumed four cups of water since Mom decided she was going to bed. I didn’t tell her I was reading it tonight. I need to do it on my own and let the words consume me before I share what’s inside.
I pad up the wooden stairs, barefoot, in my leggings and an oversized t-shirt, already set for bed. It’s eleven, and I need to stop avoiding my bedroom.
The door creaks as I walk inside, greeting me as it always has since I was little. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it on the outside of my chest. I settle down on the edge of my bed and pull open the painted wooden drawer of my nightstand. It sometimes sticks because of the old paint, but tonight, it opens with ease. I push aside my purple rabbit’s foot key chain and remove the letter from where it has been sitting since I unpacked my bags after moving home.
I take the envelope into my hands and turn it over, finding the words:Please do not open until I’m gone. Normally, my patience for surprises is unheard of. If something is sitting in front of me and it’s mine to open, I could never let it sit for longer than necessary. This is the first time in my life I have ignored my sense of impatience.
I slip my finger into the puckered edge on the side and carefully tear the opening. The letter is on notepaper, handwritten, not typed. Dad was never big on technology, but he preferred to type his letters rather than focus on making his penmanship clear enough to read.
My hands shake as I unfold the letter. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus on the words because my gaze settles onthe smudged blue line at the bottom of the paper—it looks to have been wet before it dried. It’s the size of a teardrop.
I close my eyes, threatening myself not to cry, telling myself I must be strong like he was while writing this, knowing it was the last letter he would ever write to me.
After another few short breaths, I open my eyes and focus on the first word:
My Melody—The sweetest of all notes.
Dad wanted to name me Melody because of his passion for notes. It wasn’t until I was older and realized he wasn’t referring to music or writing on paper, but instead, the sweetness caused by the ingredients added to the bourbon before the distilling process.
I found out today that my time has been stolen right out from beneath me. I agreed to any treatment available, but this time, I was too late for any such hope. Everyone on earth has a time of birth and a time of death, and most of us don’t have control over the inevitable. While I don’t know the exact minute I will have to leave, I know I have enough time to say what I want to say. That makes me lucky. Some are not so lucky.
I thought long and hard, trying to think of a way tostay present in your life even though I can’t physically be there. The idea came to me in my sleep one night shortly after the doc gave me the news, I’m still terrified to tell you.
While I know you will think of me often, I imagine there will be certain days and times in your life that should be happy occasions, and I don’t want the lack of my presence to shroud those days. There are things a father needs to tell his daughter, and I can’t say them all at once, so I plan to find a messenger … which I am working on.
Somehow, someway, you will still hear from me when you need to hear from me the most.
I know your life will be full of amazing moments, and you will create a world of memories you will get to keep and reminisce over. The great times in life will outweigh the sad moments. Whatever choices you make will be the right ones because your mind is stronger than your heart, and your heart is stronger than your fears. Because of this, your dreams are all waiting for you to uncover them, at the right time, over the course of your life.
I’m proud of the woman you have become, and though I wish I could watch you turn old and gray, I know I have done everything possible to show you the meaning of happiness, so I have no concerns; your life will never be anything less than perfect.
You know my love for you will never die, Melody. You can feel it, and so can I. I can rest knowing you will never question the father I was to you or how much you mean to me.
Forever is an infinite amount of time, and that’s how long I will love you, my beautiful daughter.
—Dad
Though there are tears, the pain doesn’t resurface as I thought it would. I feel like I can read this over and over whenever I want to hear the gift of his voice, his wisdom, and his love.
I lay down with the letter and lay it over my chest, pressing it against my heart. My memories of Dad pull me into a deep sleep, one where I don’t move a muscle until the sun pours in through the cracks of my blinds.
I open my eyes to a new day, my birthday, and to the letter I allowed myself to have as an early gift. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the light when a quiet tap echoes through my door. "I’m awake," I call out to Mom.
I place the letter back into the envelope quickly and drop it into my drawer to hide the evidence. She may not be ready for those words yet.
When the door opens, I’m surprised to see Brett standing in the ray of light beaming in through the window. "Your mom said I could be the first to wish you a happy birthday," he says, walking in and plopping down on the side of my bed.
"I have morning breath and bed head," I groan. "You’re not supposed to see me like this yet."
