Mark crouched down next to me.
» How are you ? «
I nodded, even though that wasn’t the case.
Grandma said, « Read it. »
« Out loud? »
« If you can. »
I looked around me.
My mother was crying.
My uncle was pretending not to cry.
Half of the guests had fallen silent.
I swallowed and went for it.
« My dear little girl, »
« You told me once that you were afraid you would never be able to become a mother. »
« I didn’t know what to say, because there are some kinds of suffering that can’t be eased by finding the right words. »
« So I went home and did the only useful thing that came to mind. »
« I started sewing a dress. »
I stopped.
The garden has faded away.
I remembered that conversation.
I was 34 years old.
We had been trying for two years.
We had just learned that our first round of fertility treatments had failed.
I hadn’t told most people.
But I had told Grandma.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
I told him, « Maybe it just won’t work for me. »
Grandma leaned across the table and said to me, « Maybe. But today is not like any other day. »
That’s all.
She hadn’t told me to relax.
She didn’t say it would happen when I stopped trying.
She hadn’t promised me a miracle.
Just :
Today is not like any other day.
Apparently, after that, she went home and started sewing.
I continued reading.
« I didn’t do it because I knew you were going to have a baby. »
« I did it because hope needs a place to sit while it waits. »
« If no baby ever wore it, it wouldn’t make your life any less beautiful. »
« You never waited to become ‘enough’. »
« But if a baby were to be born, I wanted that little girl to have something done before we even knew her. »
I couldn’t read for a while.
Mark took my hand.
Grandma was looking at me.
Her eyes were moist.
I continued.
« I was almost finished when I was 94 years old. »
« After that, my hands started to hurt more and more. »
« I left the sleeve aside because I thought that maybe, one day, you could finish what I had started. »
I looked at the unfinished dress.
« I’m terrible at sewing. »
Grandma smiled.
» I know. «
Everyone laughed.
It did me good.
I immersed myself in the letter again.
« The other dresses are your mother’s and yours. »
« Three little girls. »
« Three different eras. »
« If I have the chance to meet yours, make her put on the one that fits her. »
« Don’t keep them so preciously that no one can wear them. »
« Clothes are made to wrinkle. »
« Children are made to make a mess. »
« Love doesn’t become more beautiful by keeping it intact. »
I lowered the paper.
That sentence touched me more than anything else.
Because I had spent Lily’s first year in fear.
Not all the time.
But enough.
After having a miscarriage at 14 weeks, I considered joy as something that could earn me punishment if I indulged in it too much.
When Lily was born, I counted her breaths.
I checked the monitor every ten minutes.
I woke Mark up because I thought she was too hot.
Then because she looked too cold.
I was researching every skin rash.
Every sound.
Each layer is bizarre.
I had wanted her so much that sometimes, having her with me felt less like a gift and more like something fragile being entrusted to me.
Grandma had noticed.
Of course she had noticed.
The letter continued.
« And one more thing. »
« Stop looking scared every time that child climbs somewhere. »
« You, you climbed everywhere. »
« Your mother was worse. »
Mom said, « That’s wrong. »
Grandma immediately retorted, « You climbed onto the roof of the garage when you were eight years old. »
« I was retrieving a ball. »
« You used the downspout. »
« I was resourceful. »
Even I laughed.
Then I reached the last paragraph.
« If I’m here when they open this letter, someone give me the baby. »
« If I’m not there, tell her I’ve waited a very long time to meet her. »
« And tell her I was glad she came. »
I couldn’t finish signing.
I clutched the letter to my chest.
Then I crawled through the grass and hugged my grandmother.
With caution.
She seemed terribly small to me.
Bones, cotton, and warm skin.
For almost my entire life, Grandma had been so strong.
She was carrying laundry baskets.
He was moving furniture.
She lifted me up even though I was much too tall for that.
Now I was afraid that my hug would hurt her.
She patted me on the back.
« You’re making a scene. »
« You’re the one who wrote the letter. »
« Years ago. »
« It’s even worse. »
She laughed softly.
Then Lily reached for the box.
Obviously.
She initially set her sights on a blue glass button.
« No, » said three generations of women in unison.
Everyone laughed again.
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