Dear Sidney,

Last Saturday when I talked to Mom she began the conversation with, "I haven't told Thomas yet, but I offered one of my kidneys to a woman I know who is dying of cancer."

Sheesh Sidney, all I could do was sit there in silence--stunned--while she went over the details of this conversation she had with a70 year old woman, a two time cancer survivor.

You know how Mom is, I couldn't just tell her I think she is making a mistake because she will shut down and stop the conversation so I tried to be diplomatic and said, "Wow, that was really generous of you."

"It isn't generous," she said, "That woman has worked hard her entire life, someone should give her a kidney. It isn't generous, it's the right thing to do."

Well yes there is that. I should be thankful that I have a mom who is that wonderful, but all I can think is, "I don't want to lose my mom."

Sidney, you know how many years I didn't have Mom at all, the years when she was sick and so medicated that she couldn't parent and then all the years when Daddy wouldn't let us have a relationship. Finally, we are all close, all learning to trust one another, and I don't want to give it up.

I'm not trying to upset you, I just needed to tell someone. I've kept my feelings, my fear crumbled inside my chest for the past week. I dare not ask Mom any more questions because then she will think I'm too interested and won't talk to me about it at all.

I tried, before I changed the subject, to caution her. I said, "The thing is sometimes insurance doesn't want to pay for those sorts of things and they don't like to pay if there are complications and of course how are you going to get time off work."

She pushed all my concerns aside with a "Well I probably won't be a good match anyway so I don't need to think about that right now."

I suppose.

Just tell me not to worry Sidney, tell me that even if she does give a kidney she'll be okay. I just need to be your little sister for a few minutes.

Love you,

Jamie

Dear God,

I didn't feel like it, but I walked outside today. It was something different and the snow looked magical. Trees heavy with snow instead of leaves, grand paths more like mazes than sidewalks, and neighbors, neighbors everywhere.

I threw snowballs, pretending they were baseballs in the final game of the World Series with the stands packed and the excitement tangible like the weather. I waited for the applause because my pitches traveled so far, so fast and I thought they were exceptional.

There was no applause so I went back into the house.

But after I came in I realized that I didn't need the applause because in those moments I felt young--so young and so small--and the world felt huge, and that was the gift.

Thank you God for bringing me the snow that I did not want but somehow needed.

Amen,
Jamie

Dear Momma,

I know you didn't want to talk about the past today. When I asked you about Paul and Sidney, you tried to change the subject, but I wouldn't let you. I couldn't accept your silence this time. Sidney needs explanations for memories that are more questions than anything else.

I'm sorry that this hurts you. I've tried my whole life to minimize hurt for you. I stood up to daddy for you and I've held my tongue for you; but this time Sidney needs my help more than you need my protection.

I was so small, I only remember certain things. I know you said you don't remember Paul, but I wonder. He was the only little boy other than Jim we ever played with when we were in gradeschool.

Paul had brown hair and he was chubby and awkward. He lived with his grandma in the trailer park across the street from our neighborhood.

I just feel like you must remember. Once, his grandma taught Sidney how to macramé. She made a plant hanger out of hemp and you used it for many years, even after I moved away for good. Hmm, maybe he only stayed with his grandma in the summertime since I can only picture him in shorts.

The big boys, the teenagers, in the neighborhood teased Sidney and Paul. I remember that really well.

Oh, I don't know why it seems important. I can't put my finger on it. I guess Paul is just one more question in a whole series of questions that we have from our childhood. Like the packages that arrived periodically, like the story of how you met daddy, like the friend who kept Sidney while you were in the hospital having me—things you and daddy whispered about after I was settled into bed, but still awake.

Please, let's begin a new chapter--heck a whole new chapter in a whole new book--Daddy is dead and we are still alive. You have moved on, you have Thomas now so don't be afraid of the past. Sidney is really struggling, more than I think we know. Sometimes, its the things we don't talk about are the things that hurt us the most.

We'll talk soon. Please think about it, see if you remember something, anything.

I love you.

Love

Jamie

Dear God,

I search on the internet for a community that no longer exists. I type in street names, an elementary school, even a sir name or two of people I remember.

Nothing at first, then a picture of the school pops up; but it isn't right. Where are the double doors and the steps? I remember a rug with an eagle on it—was that inside the front doors or outside of them? Where is the odd-ball gym equipment?

I am empty. I need the images to fill my emptiness. I am desperate.

I remember a blizzard. I type in dates, kind of haphazard at first because I'm not really thinking. Then I stop and think, I count forward from my birth, from my sister's, trying to narrow it down. When was the blizzard? When did my mom slip on the icy sidewalk with me riding on her back? When? When? When?

Breath.

I am calming down now God. I'm sorry that these things matter to me. My life is a puzzle missing pieces, gigantic ones and small ones.

I won't give up. I think I am finally on the right path, walking toward something instead of always running.

Breath.

Thank you God for helping me to see the path.

Amen,

Jamie

Dear Miranda,

The rush for groceries has begun and I am walking to the store with you and you are raising your lips to taste the falling snow. I smile because you are 12 and I remember how the snow felt when I was twelve.

So I open my cold lips and taste the snow too. Like magic dust, like starflakes, it is everything incredible. It tastes the same.

You say, "I love the snow because you can see people's footprints and know where they have been and what they were doing."

I gasp, "Say that again, I'm going to steal it for my book."

So you say it again. Awesome kid. How did I give birth to an awesome kid?

Love you,
Mommy

P.S. You are like magic dust and starflakes too--everything incredible.

Dear Sidney,

I am still thinking about our conversation from the other night. I'm troubled by your sentence, "Things have happened to me in recent years, things that no one knows and I think I need to talk to someone about them." I didn't ask, I didn't think it was right to ask; but it troubles me and I wish I had asked.

Another thing, you said you are having memoires now of things that happened when we were kids, things that you "know darn well really happened." What could those things be and why do they scare me so much?

I am our family's memory. I carry the stories, the names, the dates, the emotions; but I forget that somewhere in your mind you do too. Your memories are a mystery to me, but I know how scary mine are so I'm scared—petrified actually--for you when you find all of yours.

Breath, big sister. Breath and call me when you need me. I'm always here.

Love

Jamie

Dear Sidney,

Thank you for talking with me tonight, being able to say, "Daddy was a mean man" helped. I hope it helped you as well.

I'm not sure what the future holds for us, but I hope we keep working on our issues and become better people.

You are the best sister.

Love
Jamie

Dear God,

I'm writing this book, you see, and I realized quite suddenly—today--that the main character's story is my story. Well sort of. I've struggled with it, this book. I keep getting lost, not because I don't know the story, the characters but because I know them and then turn my back on what I know.

I'm scared. When I finish writing for a session, I feel emotionally drained, excited, stressed--all at the same time.

Anyway, I realized that the road to her story is actually writing down, slowly, my story. I need to reconnect with those parts of me that were a kid once, a kid lost and stuck like my story character. I have always remembered those times, but when they creep too close to the surface of my life, I swat them back down so that they have to start that slow excruciating climb back to the surface again. My hope is always that each time the climb will take longer and the ghosts of the past will eventually stay gone forever.

Not this time. This time I see the importance of it all, the significance. For the first time I get it, I see how the path led to right now. Right now.

Thank you God, for my path.

Amen,

Jamie