Today, I’d like to share an excerpt of a project with you, in hopes of sharing the solace I’ve found. It’s called Letters from the Heart. The project lead on this is my best pal and writing coach, Gurpreet. After attending the UK premiere of the documentary ‘Maya Angelou: And Still I Rise’, she had a eureka moment. She realized that so many of us feel so alone in our lives and with our problems, but that there is kind of solace in hearing the stories of others and relating to them that doesn’t exist anywhere else. This is the essence of story telling.
From that realization, Letters from the Heart bloomed into an anonymous projects for writers from everywhere to share their stories to reach out to the world and feel the weight of life, together.
With all that said, here’s an excerpt from one of the letters that really spoke to me. Make sure to check out the full post over the Letters from the Heart site.
Letter to the Abandoned
I saw a friend on the train today. Someone I haven’t seen in eight years. He’s come so far from the little boy I remember growing up with – the cheeky one who used to check out girls’ bottoms through an empty kitchen towel roll and rate them on how ‘delicious’ they looked while wiggling his eyebrows at the other boys. But that was fifteen years ago. He’s in his mid-twenties now and works as a corporate finance solicitor. He looked so handsome in his suit, so smart. It made me think of you.
Every once in a while we see each other, you and I, and, for me at least, things have been awkward when we do. I have so much guilt regarding you; guilt I didn’t realise I had for a long time. When I cut ties with your family, I thought it was just your sister I was leaving behind, but it wasn’t. I was leaving you too. The promise I made to your dad all those years ago wasn’t just about never leaving her, it was about never leaving either of you. I had promised to stay by your side, to always be in your corner, to look out for you no matter what the future entailed. When he died and your sister shut me out, I backed out of that promise – I figured that you can’t be there for someone who doesn’t want you anymore. Now I realise I did so thinking only of your sister.
But it wasn’t just her I grew up with.
It wasn’t just her that mattered.
When we were children, you used to laugh at me being scared of spiders. I remember one incident where you ripped the legs off a rather large one and threw them at me as I tried to get away. I was standing on the bed, screaming, and you were blocking the door so I couldn’t get out. Then there was that Hallowe’en when you deliberately terrified me with the floating pumpkin outside the window, or the time you locked me under the house in the dark. Had that been our relationship in a nutshell, this guilt wouldn’t exist. But we had our good times too. Whether it was playing cops and robbers or baking shortbread biscuits with me, saving me from having to eat any more tofu or even taking me to orientation at university… You were my brother, in every good way and every bad way possible.
But the memory that stands out the most is when you and I were in hospital together the night your dad passed away. I remember standing outside the door and listening to you crying inside, begging him to get up and go home with you. I had never seen you so vulnerable. If I’m being honest, it hadn’t ever occurred to me that you, of all people, who held so much power and sway when we were children, could be so helpless. I couldn’t think of a single word of comfort then and, when it fell to me to say something, all that was running through my head was that you were the man of the house now. You were the one that had to go home and tell your mum and sister he wasn’t ever going to walk through those doors again. You were the one that had to take his place at the head of your family and be the provider, the level head. I saw you at your weakest.
It broke my heart.
And then a few months passed, and you came over. You were a little stronger. Not talking too much, still not laughing or eating more than an apple, but there was still a strength there, brewing just beneath the surface. That’s when I realised it wasn’t just your sister I had left, it was you too. I left you in a house where, often, you were standing opposed by everyone else beneath that roof with no one to back you up. Another few months passed, and another, and another until you were talkative, healthy looking, smart. I couldn’t tell if you were happy or if you were faking it, but I hope with all of my heart it was the former.
I have this dream for you. It’s something that has been in my head ever since the rose coloured glasses came off and I learnt of the atrocities our family was living through. Now, after everything that’s happened, now that neither your dad or I no longer have your back in that house, it’s grown. It was a dream I shared with your dad. With the majority of the family, in fact. We all spoke about it often…
I dream you get out.
I hope and I pray that one day I will see you smiling and know, without a single speck of doubt, that it’s a sincere smile. That behind it is genuine happiness and love.
To find out more about the project go to heartshapedletters.wordpress.com, or to contribute an anonymous letter, contact G.K. Sihat at firstname.lastname@example.org.