This is a letter I wrote a while back (before I had a blog) and have never gotten around to posting it until now. It was posted on Sheila's blog about a month after I wrote it, I think.
This letter is part of the reason that I started writing a blog. I've written lots of things over the years, but with each one, I've deleted it once it was finished. Writing is a good way for me to speak my mind or get things out of my system, especially since I'm not much of a talker. When something is stuck in my head and I need to shut it off, putting it down in words usually seems to work. There's a lot of things that I should probably write about, but for now I'm putting this one to rest.
Anyway, here it is:
This letter is part of the reason that I started writing a blog. I've written lots of things over the years, but with each one, I've deleted it once it was finished. Writing is a good way for me to speak my mind or get things out of my system, especially since I'm not much of a talker. When something is stuck in my head and I need to shut it off, putting it down in words usually seems to work. There's a lot of things that I should probably write about, but for now I'm putting this one to rest.
Anyway, here it is:
Dear Mr. Harmanson,
We've never met, but I've heard quite a bit about you. I know that you have always been known as a good storyteller and I think that you would be interested in the story I have to tell you. This story stretches over many years, but is certainly one worth telling. As any good storyteller would agree, it's best to start from the beginning.
On October 31st, 1950, a beautiful, healthy baby girl was born in Chicago, Illinois. She was the cutest baby anyone could ask for and best of all, she was yours. For some reason that still remains a mystery, shortly after she was born you left. Her mother struggled to raise the tiny baby on her own, something that would be a daunting task for a single mom today; but much more so in the 1950s.
Her mother raised her well, despite hardships. She was much like her dad; besides sharing his middle and last name, she had his kind sense of humor, his eyes, and even his smile. She was hard-working and intelligent, helping her mom around the house and excelling at school. He would be proud of the way she gave her best effort at everything she did, from piano lessons, to her studies, and even in her friendships. Yet there was always an awful void that overshadowed everything she did. With each birthday, she hoped that she might get a card or a gift from her dad, or maybe he would write her a letter. Maybe he would even show up on her doorstep. He might even come back to stay with her and put her on his knee and tell her stories to make her laugh. But he never did.
She couldn't help wondering if he left because of her. She wondered if he had wanted a boy instead of a girl. Then she wondered if he had even wanted a baby at all. Maybe he left simply because she was born. That burden of undeserved guilt hung over her every day. Didn't he want to see her? Didn't he want to know what she was like? Had he forgotten about her? Her mother wouldn't tell her anything about him. Not even his first name. If she knew his first name, she might be able to find him, but then maybe he wouldn't want to talk to her.
For years, she searched for him. Even if she found him, she wasn't sure he'd want to talk to her, but she had so many questions. There were so many things that they could talk about and so many things that she needed to hear. A smile and an "I love you" would have made a world of difference. So many things were left unsaid. He never reached out to her and her mother had no idea if he was still in Illinois or somewhere several states away.
Time went by and her mother became ill. Knowing that her mother's time was running out, she asked again for his name and anything else her mother could tell her about her dad. Her mother revealed his name and she even had some photos she had saved of him from shortly after they were married.
Not long after, her mother passed away. Now she began searching in earnest, hoping that with a full name and some pictures she would be able to turn up something. The search hit one dead end after another, but she was persistent. She searched records in several states, but to no avail. It seemed as if he had completely vanished.
Today, 60 years after you left, she found you. There you were in the obituary section of the newspaper. Even in that grainy photo, the resemblance between the two of you is unmistakeable. The brief biography in the paper revealed fascinating details from your life. For many years the two of you lived only 15 minutes apart. I wonder if you knew this. Did you know her house? Did you ever drive past? In spite of all, your daughter still loves you and grieves for all the years that she spent not knowing you. Even though she's no longer the tiny baby you left behind, she is still your daughter.
I'm writing this letter knowing that you'll never read it, but hoping that you found peace. I hope that your daughter can finally have some measure of closure and that she can put this part of her life to rest. As I mentioned at the beginning of the letter, you and I have never met, and yet I have learned some important things from you. Being a father myself, the circumstances of your life have impressed upon me the importance of fatherhood and the need to always be a steady part of my daughter's lives. Many of the things I often take for granted are so much more important than I ever realized, whether it be spending time with my daughters or simply telling them I love them and how important they are to me. You can rest assured I will always be there for them, no matter what. I thank you for that lesson.
Your grandson,
Mark
Mark
