Dear you,

Dear you,

I’ve meant to write you, so many times…and yet it hasn’t felt right, until now. I want to write to you, before I meet you, as I feel there’s so much I want you to know. About the girl before, the girl that was, before the woman you will one day meet. Tonight finally feels like a good time to at least start. Because tonight I just learned my last living grandparent, my grandma Mae, passed away today. My heart breaks tonight, not just because she is gone, but because you will never meet her, nor any of the amazing people who were a part of that generation, who helped raise me, helped make me who I am today. My heart aches with all that loss. The love, the life, the laughter…a familiarity so comfortable that there is almost a physical ache in the knowledge that it is forever gone. I hope one day to tell you about each of them, to hopefully give you an idea of who they were, at least to me, even if I know I will never do it fully justice. I think that’s why I want to start writing you now. Full well knowing how it must sound, and how it will look, I’m doing this for you, and I’m doing this for me.

My heart breaks tonight, not just because she is gone, but because you will never meet her…

I’ve known for just a little over a week now that my grandma had just about a week left. It wasn’t even that surprising; I have known deep down that this was probably coming— resolved myself to it, told myself all of the rational things, “this happens,” “she’s older,” etc., etc. But even still, hearing it out loud, it hit me…harder than I expected it to. And I knew that I needed to see her. I knew this was important. More than work, or the mundane day-to-day things that seem to matter so much—until they don’t. So I went, and I saw her. Even though her body didn’t seem to be hers anymore, and her mind was no longer serving her as it should, it was still her, and she knew who I was, and that was all that I could ask for. To see her, to say I loved her—and to hear her say it back—it was everything. My heart still aches for my parent and aunt and uncle who have been with her non-stop since this started, and the grief I know that they must be feeling too. Grandma Mae had just turned ninety years old. A small woman, but she had a spark. So much spunk and personality there. They lived humbly, my grandpa Vance and her—but you’d never hear her ever in a negative spirit. She always seemed to have a positive thing to say; usually it was some funny story she would be hearing about this, that or the other. “About whichmajigger” was a pretty common saying, because the name of the person would escape her. Mae and Vance lived on a farm about an hour north of the small town I grew up in, in Oregon, in an even tinier town named Halsey. There were many summers when my younger brother and I would get shipped off to our grandparents for a month (or at least it felt like a month). So many memories: That little ramshackle house, the barn, the feral cats that lived under the house—there were always kittens, which I was always chasing in the hopes of catching one to just love on it, to be inevitably scratched up mercilessly by it, drop it, and the cycle would start all over again. The old white, deep clawfoot bathtub that scratched our bottoms raw from the roughness of the tub. Hundreds of VHS tapes meticulously organized and labeled, three movies to a tape, which we spent hours watching in front of their tv in their living room. The dozens of old clocks, that you would hear in their varying chiming, dings, cuckoos, and even bird calls (yes, bird calls) at the top of every hour. I can remember being very young one night, sleeping in the living room at their farmhouse, waking up and just hearing all of those clocks—their ticking so loud in the dead of night that I just sat there and listened. I remember the stories. Oh the stories they would tell us, of us “hoodlum children.” Ha! I don’t actually remember this personally, I must have been too young, but I loved hearing my grandma tell it. Both my grandparents had previous marriages, so there were often times I would come to visit that my grandpa Vance’s other grandchildren would be there visiting them as well. I think there must have been four of us, all boys, save for me. My grandparents would often take us to the coast in their trailer, all of us kids sleeping on one small kitchen table, converted into a bed come night. Apparently the boys were “little terrors” the entire time—or so the story goes, according to Grandma Mae—but, even so, they treated me like, “a little lady.” It still shocks me, thinking about it now (especially knowing how incredibly cold the ocean is off the Oregon Coast), but apparently whenever they would take us to the beach, we wouldn’t be there but five minutes before we were, all of us, all four boys and Sabrina, tearing our clothes off and running pell-mell for the ocean to get in. laughs I think about that now, and I can’t help but laugh. We must have come out of that water completely sopping wet, sandy, and shivering from the cold—probably a complete mess and utter handful—but all Grandma Mae did was laugh when she told the story. I love thinking about her laughing. I will always remember her that way—happy, and just so easy to be around. And I remember she used to sing. I wish my memory was better, but I think I remember she used to sing to me at night before I fell asleep. I’ve always thought it was my grandma Mae that got me singing when I was a child. Something that so many people didn’t know I could do for years, because I was so terrified of getting up on a stage in front of people and singing. And even now, it seems to be a secret I have kept, yet again—one that breaks my heart. Oh how I secretly long and wish to sing again. I hope to find a way to do so again. My heart feels so big and full when I do. I hope one day to share it with you.

I hope that, no matter when you meet me, you pursue me. And I hope you don’t ever let me go.

There are so many memories, and so many more I could share. Thank you for listening to these ones. More than anything, though…I have to admit, I hate that you’re not here. I hate it. Six years—for six years I have been navigating being single and dating, and it’s been gut wrenching. I know it’s weird—talking about it, even just acknowledging it—but I make no apologies for it. I only wish I hadn’t had to experience so much heartbreak. I wish I had already met you. I have been looking for you, this entire time—every time hoping it would be you. I do not know why I wasn’t meant to meet you yet, nor why I still haven’t met you, but I find a small measure of comfort knowing I may not have been ready to (yet). But I am now. I am so ready. With that said, I am sorry you will not ever know the girl I was, before. The strong-willed, headstrong, stubborn, full of life girl that I was. She’s still there, I promise. She still has her moments. Haha! I’m sorry you will not meet a girl with the naïveté of youth, or wanting a romantic, “fairy-tale” wedding. I’m afraid I have already been there, done that, and come out the other end. While I may have lost some of that, the girl who wants to be treated special, like she’s the most important, most beautiful woman in the room—she’s still in there. I still have a romantic heart, that still beats, even after having been broken a few times. I just don’t know how much more I can take, to be perfectly honest. I want to find you, I want it more than I can even say…but I also have to protect this heart of mine. She’s so incredibly tired—of being stomped on, of being passed by, of not being taken care of—that I don’t think I can take it another time. So, I’ve stopped looking. And especially here—Sacramento is the worst, or at least it has been for me. That’s not to say I’ve entirely given up…at least not on the idea of you. The hope of you. That somehow you exist—as hard as that is to imagine, well-meaning people continue to tell me that you do. Here’s the thing: I will not settle. I have not settled. I’m here, living my best life, waiting for you to join me in it. I hope that you will. But even if you don’t? I will just keep on living my dreams out—with every adventure, every trip…I just sometimes wish I could have you in my life to share all of them with you. I want that so bad. I hope that one day we can share all of the stories, all of the adventures in life that led to us finally meeting. I also hope that you don’t let the strong woman you meet one day intimidate you too much; at least not enough to not approach me. I hope that you do. I hope you make the first move. I hope you aren’t afraid to ask me on a date, and the next date, and the next. I hope that, no matter when you meet me, you pursue me. And I hope you don’t ever let me go.

Until that day, I know I am going to keep loving the hell out of me, wishing you were here, but continuing on—the strong, resilient, independent woman that I am. I have so much more that I could say, but I think that’s probably enough for tonight.

So with that I will say goodnight.

Love, me.