Why? Why Now?
I did not think about my pursuer for a few days since her last message. At least not actively except for asking myself on my 45-minutes drive those early Fall mornings, “Why now?” Trolling the memories that I held of her, I kept asking myself “Why doesn’t she just leave me alone?”
My annoyance grew as I recalled opening the new email from her and the sting of her words zapped me in the face. The first thing was her calling me Mrs. McPherson*. Why the hell that bothered me is still a mystery but coming out of her virtual mouth it did.
Then she wanted to explain some of what happened as maybe then I would not hold such a beef against her. She forgot that my memories told me its version.
“Really now?” I thought. “Now you want to explain? I don’t think so!”
For some reason she sent two emails this time, something about being kicked off the computer. She should have left it at one. The second email confirmed that patience is a virtue that I still needed some lessons on.
Forget Your Memories
“Let’s just forgive and forget about the past,” she wrote and then went into a bipolar-like rant that I was full of anger still and that is not good for my health.
The late Bernie Mac had this line he would use in his television show, “America…let me tell you…” Well, to paraphrase: People…let me tell you…the words coming out of my mouth were not becoming of me.
“What the f… she cares about my health! She hasn’t concerned herself with me when I needed help, and now she is? !@^?”
My memories of our history were clearly different from hers. How could I let go of being abandoned and forgotten with nary a word from her for this long? Who the heck is she to decide what emotions I should be experiencing at her reappearance in my life, providential or not, demanding room in my personal space? And, my memories were the only things that made sense anyway!
Recurring October Dreams And Memories
I was calm enough to know not to immediately reply to her latest emails. So off to bed I went and the face again appeared in my dreams. This happens every October, almost every night for the month. My daughter also had not-so pleasant memories about this time of the year. And it was in October that my life almost came to an end.
Sometime my memories are not so right but I do believe it was also one October that I prepared my Memorial Service several years ago. The entire service was planned, music chosen and the programme printed. My daughter teased me when it was done that come that day, she will have nothing to do but plug the removable disk into a computer and let it run.
One of the songs I had chosen for my Memorial Service was “I Just Can’t Give Up Now” and it is one of the songs that helped to bring me back from the brink of death one October not too long ago.
Which brings me back to cellular memory. My body was talking to me again – another October is here – as this woman attempts to re-enter my life. It seems to be saying to me that I can choose whether the healing will take longer and be harder. Or I could dial the telephone number she included in her second email.
“All I want is for us to be reunited and start communicating in a more friendly manner and not like we are enemies,” she had closed her email.
All I, Claudette Esterine-McPherson, want is more time to feel these emotions that have resurfaced for another October and think this through some more.
Maybe I will drop her a line…tomorrow.
How Can I Be Thankful?
October 8, 2009 and I was pooped, hungry and not too joyous that it was snowing, I still had to stop and collect the humongous organic chicken that was to grace my Thanksgiving table. Pulling away from a friend’s beautiful 100-year old house in Southern Alberta, the knot in the pit of my stomach tightened as if to remind of the memories I was trying to downplay.
That was a wasted motion on its part as how could I have forgotten it? Since my first cup of coffee at 5:00 a.m., it arrived and had me gasping for breath several times throughout my presentations to the Parole Board on my clients’ behalf.
My husband was on the phone wanting to know if he should start driving home now instead of early the next morning as was the plan. He had a 6-hour drive from the oil rigs where he worked and he feared the worse as he listened to me describe the sometime excruciating pain that had me doubled-over in my truck. We both tried to diagnose what could have been the cause and possible home remedies.
“Roger,” I tentatively said, “do you think this is psychological?”
Not understanding where I could be going with that question or maybe preferring not to go there, he responded, “How?”
“Well, you know I have been dealing with some stuff and it is the day, it is October 8, the day my downward spiraling began back then.”
“No,” said my husband who sometimes refused to acknowledge that I am not super-woman. “You are just stressed from the presentations and all that was weighing on them.”
Then, as only Roger could conclude he said, “Furthermore I would have heard it in your voice.”
“Heard what in my voice?” was my comeback.
“Depression,” he said matter-of-factually and I could just imagine his green-blue eyes with that man-boyish gaze that he has penetrating into me.
Making New Memories
When we first met, Roger and I, after noticing that he was a somewhat of a red-head, the next thing that caught me were his eyes and that impish smile that reside deeply in them. His eyes were so irresistible to me that throughout our first dinner together, I could not look away. So taken by them, a few hours later as we were about to pull out of the parking lot, I reached over and grabbed him, pulled him in to me and kissed him. Not caring whether he thought I was a crazy ‘black’ woman, I kissed him again. His eyes made me do it.
And over the almost two years that we were together up until then, all he had to do was turn those eyes on me and I knew that everything might not be the way we want it, we were not where we wanted to be as individuals but all will be well.
Roger knew things about me that I do not and he is not afraid to share them with me – even when I might not want to be informed. He also knew that October 2006 was a crazy-making month for me and that Thanksgiving since then did not find me being grateful.
He also knew that this October came with more issues – with the emails that I have processed. That is why we were both glad that he was on his way home for our second Thanksgiving together – to help make new memories.
*Name changed to protect the identities of people involved
This is Part 2 of a three-part personal short story series on letting go. Part 1 and the introduction to the series are available, as well as our last short story series by Alexis Ali, Adele’s Pattern: A Journey To Redemption.
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The final installment of the Letting Go series is now available.