Letter to My Unborn Daughter, Pt. 1

Dear ____________ :

May you grow up to have all the abundant gifts a girl should possess, and none of these I mean materially. May you spend more time in the library than in the nail shop and more days dining on incredible conversation than on Ben & Jerry's (my own waistline's demise- well that, and you of course ; ).

I hope that you spend your days seeking opportunities to explore the world and its mysteries, and truths, and stories. I hope you choose to challenge others through your discoveries, share the insights you have both stumbled upon and sought. May you value each for their inherent worth- the lessons life teaches in addition to the ones you, yourself, seek. May you seek them. Apply them. Share them. And, repeat as necessary throughout your entire life.

Know that you are deserving and wanted at all times, especially know this when you are faced with the inevitable doubt in those close to you and in those you feel abandoned by. You do not need to ever convince someone of your worth- you are my daughter, you are incredible. Your worth transcends words and no language of man or woman, mother or father, could succeed in its articulation. So, I will not try only to fail- but allow my presence in your life to always be a testament to it. Your value is within you, please don't seek out others to show you what you are already in possession of. This is another one of your mother's blunders- may you make your own.

Your family is readying itself for your arrival, may you come in peace.

Love,

Mom.

The Room I've Since Been Searching For

The bed is unmade,

and those memories, they are worn,

But there is a thought of you

So long ago

that testifies warmth;

When we woke to the light,

It was splintered up through your blinds

and in the dark of your room

a new world dawned and we,

we were alive;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

The coffee is cold,

and those stores are all past closed,

but there is a life with you

so long ago that I long to restore;

And, now I'm in

In the dark of your hall,

Reaching out for that handle on on the door,

to that room that we shared,

The space I have since been searching for;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful,

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

Here's to Mr. So-and-So.

preface: this piece was written when I was a senior in college. I included it because at the time, it was Rita's favorite piece of my writing, which was set to music, so yeah, it's a song. After I graduated, Rita had me come and open for her "open mic" night at UCLA, the good ol' Eclectic days. Of course, I was supposed to make a few bucks 'cause Rita always got her friends paid gigs. So, here's to you, Rita. RIP.

Now before you leave,

finally this chance, it's on me,

there are words that I need to speak,

but only to diffuse all of their power in meaning;

There must have been a time,

But I cannot recall,

When the love that you gave to me

Was nothing short of magical;

And those colors that you said

I brought to your life

Were like none that you'd ever known,

But that there would always be something

that you,

you would love more;

So, at dawn, I finally fall asleep,

And, I am kept awake all night in dreams;

'Cause the hardest hope to know,

is the hope that you,

you will not ever be able to let me go;

But one day, you started to prefer,

Black and White,

and you didn't need any colors in your life

'Cause you painted them yourself in all your pride;

And you taught me that magic,

Well, it's only composed of tricks,

And, that truest love and deception,

They can never coexist;

So, now before I leave,

Finally, this chance, it's on me;

And, the hardest hope that I know,

it's the hope that you will not ever

be able to let me go.

Golden Days of Yore

for grandma.

Twist Roman shades back

Reveal days of youth

before trepidation gave treaty to

Sister Apathy;

Draw up the Shutter latch

Watch the driveway of olden days

(past the intersection of the Golden Days)

from the padded kitchen chair on the

beige stained linoleum stage;

Turn on the Tiffany

Illuminate secrets

of life's mysteries composed from

Circumstance' score;

Unbolt the top lock of the security door

Just in case of emergency or another fall

(not this time for a man, but for God)

and make your way by your slow shuffle walk

down the burnt-orange carpeted hall,

past the fortieth anniversary portrait,

past the towel closet,

past the outdated pictures of your grandkids on the wall;

"Are you the love of my life . . . "

"Well you say that I treat you like a book on the shelf,

I don't take you out that often

because I know that I completed you."

-Conner Oberst of Bright Eyes