A Letter To You

Genre: Journal
Word count: 334
Written: March 4, 2009

This was a journal entry that I wrote last year. I re-read it recently, and for some reason, it seems to resonate with my thoughts this past week. I no longer remember who the 'you' at the end of the entry refers to, but I suppose it could be versatile.

Throughout the years, my mother has occasionally self-declared a holiday for herself. Whether it be just a night on the town with her friends, or a two week trek to a foreign country, she would take some well deserved time off from her daily duties of taking care of the family. When she got back, I would always ask her what she did or if she enjoyed herself. She would always smile and tell me, "Yes, I had a good time, but it would have been better if you and your father had come with me."

I always assumed that she was playing the game of politeness when she told me this.

Only recently have I grasped this notion. This past weekend I found myself sitting on the shores of Myrtle Beach in the neigh hours of the night. I could barely see the water. I only felt it, tasted it, heard it. As I looked over into the black horizon, I felt a degree of euphoria and catharsis. I only wanted the water to swallow me whole, take me back to its origins where the stress and pressures of society could not reach me. Then I stumbled across a mental stifle. I thought, if only there was someone here to share the experience with me! I was not alone on the beach that night. A group of my friends stood a mere 20 feet away, jumping and singing and taking part in frivolous gaieties.

But I could not cry with them. We could not sit in dark and appreciate the silence.

I thought of my parents. Us three, sitting on the shore. Not talking. Just sitting and staring out into the abyss. In no way would this be awkward. The silence itself would be a stronger bond than any amount of conversation.

Then I thought about you. How nice it would be. Just sitting. Not talking. Just sitting and staring. And as we have many times in the past, let the silence speak for itself.