The Grand Canyon is beautiful. I remember coming here so long ago, nearly 22 years ago, back before Christina was born, back before her mother died, back before the pain and the heartache and the joy. I wish, oh how I wish, my one true love had been here to share it all with me, the joy of raising our beautiful daughter, of seeing her stand here today with a proud look on her face as she looks out over the vastness of the Canyon. The wind blows her long golden hair away from her face and she closes her eyes for a moment as she enjoys its coolness refreshing her against the hot desert sun. My love, how I wish you could be here to witness this, that I had not lost you so long ago. Some might say twenty years is plenty long to get over such a heart-wrenching lose. I think an eternity is still not long enough. Seeing our beautiful daughter every day of her young life, seeing her grow to look so much like you, the sparkle in her eye and in her mind, reminding me of all I'd lost and yet of all I'd gained, it was almost too much to bear. But I carried on because I love her even as I love you, and as I always will.
Time can never cure me fully, love, but I know now is the time to pass something on to her, that precious thing I thought would never again see the light of day, my last memory of you, the thing I never shared with anyone before because to do so would be to finally realize, once and for all, that you are gone. Christina, she is her mother's daughter, but she is not you, and she never will be. I hope she realizes that when I give this to her, I'm not asking her to fill your shoes, I'm just asking her to gain a deeper understanding of who you were, and in gaining that, to truly find her own path.
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My father took many gorgeous pictures today, but there was a sadness in his eyes. When I asked him what was wrong, he admitted to me that this was where he had taken my mother on their honeymoon. I had never known that before, had never thought to ask. My father had shown me many pictures of my mother over the years, including the first picture he ever took of her, the picture I believed to be the most precious of all, but perhaps those photos of their first trip together as husband and wife were even more precious still.
I can't understand the bond marriage creates, I really can't. It seems such a strange thing, that one day you would be single and the next you would be wed. Why should it make such a difference? Yet I feel for my father, it must have made all the difference in the world. Why else would he show me photos from before and from after, but not from during that sacred transformation? I never thought to ask before because there was so much else he shared, but now I wonder why. I was never really religious, and neither was my father. Spiritual, maybe, believing in a high power, but not religious or superstitious or anything like that. But now, being here with him, seeing all this beauty and realizing all the things he never told me, I wonder if there is so much more I don't really understand.
My father gave me a gift this evening. I'm afraid to read it yet, but I know that one day I will. It's a book, an unfinished book, that my mother had started when she was pregnant with me. I was going to be her next great novel, before she died giving birth to me. My father says that even he hasn't read more than a few pages of it. She shared much of her work with him, but not all, and he could never bring himself to read this manuscript in its entirety, or in as much of its entirety as there is. Now, he says, he feels that is a blessing, because now he can give it as a gift to me, a piece of my mother that only she and I will share, a special bond, a piece of her that only I will know and carry on. If I choose to share it with others, he said, that would be my choice, but he's giving it only to me, and he wants me to have it, so that I can see another part of who she was.
I asked him if he was scared, giving me something she had written that he hadn't read. How did he know it would be safe for me? He just smiled and said that trust outlives death and that whatever my mother was writing, she was writing while I was growing inside of her and surely that joy and anticipation would spill over into what she wrote, though he warned me it was possible there might be a little fear as well, though. "You're an adult now, though," he said. "This is something you have a right and a privilege to. If you'd rather never read it, do the same thing I did, keep it a mystery, I'd understand, but I think you have a right to that choice and I don't want to feel compelled to make that choice for you."
So there the book sits, on the nightstand beside me bed in this 3.5 star hotel, waiting for me to get up my nerve to open it and read it. Will I like what it has to say? All my life, I've had this beautiful, perfect view of my mother, given to me from my father. Now he's given me something real: incomplete words from her own hands, unpublished, seen by no one living. Do I really have the strength to accept such a gift? Only time will tell. And I'm still young. I have all the time in the world, right? I suppose that's what my mother thought, too...
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Christina seemed a lot more somber when I talked to her on the phone today. She just got back from her trip to the Grand Canyon, so I expected her to be overflowing with excitement and stories about all the beautiful things she saw. But instead, the first thing she told me was about this book her father gave her, some of the last words her mother wrote before she died. "What do you think?" she asked me. "Should I read it?"
It gave me a certain amount of comfort and honor to hear her ask for my thoughts, but I knew immediately that this was not a decision I could make for her, or that I could even help her make. And I told her as much.
She sighed. "I know," she said. "My father basically said the same thing."
With another sigh and a brief pause, she seemed to lighten a bit, and then launched into all the stories I had been expecting to hear from the start, but I know the thoughts of her mother's writing still lingered with her. Would she read those precious words? Could she read the precious words? If I had lost a parent and the survivor had given me such a gift, would I be able to read those words? If I ever discovered my father had written something no one else had read, I'm not sure I could stop myself, whether he was living or dead. But Christina's situation is different. Everyone's situation is different. I don't know what she'll do, and that's okay. I'll love her no matter what she decides.
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"To my precious son or daughter: I don't know when you'll be born or even what we'll decide to name you when you arrive. We've got some options, but your parents are spontaneous and have decided to wait until the last minute to really decide. We're spontaneous and excited, but also a little scared. The doctors have told me I'm at high risk in this pregnancy and there's a chance that one or both of us won't make it to the other side alive. I pray with all of my heart that if only one of us survives, that it will be you. I've lived my life, young though it may be, and I've found my love, though I know he will be devastated if I have to leave him. I know he knows how I love him, and I know how he loves me. We tell each other every day. And I know that he will love you, no matter what may happen.
I'm also as certain as I can be that he will never read these words should I pass away. But maybe he'll pass them on to you. If I'm wrong and he does read them, I want him to know what he already knows: that I love him with all my heart and that I love you, my precious son or daughter, too, and that he should tell you so every day. But if I'm right and he doesn't read this, then these words are for you. I don't know you yet, but I know you are special, and I know you'll do great things, and I know that your father will always be there for you. And I'm there for you, too. Maybe you didn't realize it, but I was always there. My spirit lives on in the love your father will surely show to you.
If I am wrong about any of this, then I am sorry, but I know I'm not. I will always love you. He will always love you. And you will be bold and smart and beautiful and likely will chance the world in a way I never could. Whatever you choose to do, you'll be great, and I'll be so proud of you.
Love you always. From your mother, Alyse."
I cried when I read those words on a page glued in to the middle of the book my father had given me. I know she was right, that he never read them. He surely would have told me if he did. How could she have known him so well, known what would happen? How could she have been so brave to continue on with her pregnancy even knowing it might cost her her life? My father had never told me that part. But now I knew, and somehow, I didn't think it right to tell him I knew. The tears just kept coming. Summer vacation was almost over, and it was almost time to go back to school and see Brady again. I should be happy, excited, but now, I just felt sad. But yet, somehow, there was a sense of peace. I had never spoken to my mother, and I have no memories of her speaking to me, not a single word. But here was something she had written directly to me and to me alone. How could she have known? In my mind, these words, and how they had all come to pass, it was nothing short of a beautiful, wonderful miracle. Some might see it as terrifying and cruel, but I will always choose to see it as beautiful.
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