Open [Hearted] Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

It is 2:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, January 24th. The year is irrelevant, since years float by like the fragment of a leaf being carried away swiftly in the turbulent current of an ageless mountain spring. I hope that, no matter where you are when you read this, you are happy and in relative peace with yourself. Life is short, many say...but have you really opened your eyes to see what this means? It means second chances only come once. It means every day is a clean slate...sure...we carry some things from the previous day with us or previous months...but technically, as soon as you open your eyes when you wake...that new day is completely in your hands. How will you choose to live those next unique 24 hours?

Me? I just got done giving my fishies a much needed bath. I spoke to each of them, as I they waited impatiently in their little measuring cup while I washed their bowl. Like you would talk to a child that won't sit still through dinner...so you promise them dessert or a reward if they just wait. A 27 year old woman, talking to her fish at 2 o'clock in the morning, while the rest of the world seemingly sleeps. Alas, the reason for this letter is not to dissect the many ways I am dysfunctional in a society that embraces even the most absurd of behaviors. No...

I write because, lately, there are words that have taken new meaning or perhaps regained new life. Love. Loss. Need. Lonely. Us. Promises. Dreams. Life. In a myriad of love songs created or poems written about the beauty of our surroundings...I never once felt that burning grip around my chest, tugging it down towards the pit of my stomach...longing. Not once did any word read compare to the bottomless abyss I found when looking in your eyes as you spoke of a long lost memory...your hands moving fast, accompanying the description you carefully laid before me. I write because I should be sleeping, but when I close my eyes...all I see, hear, feel...remember...is your beauty, your freedom, your words. Is this reason enough for a letter?

How else can I explain that when I think of you, my mind is overcome in an aurora borealis of heartbeats? That while you are off sailing seas of possibilities in a dream land where anything is possible...I am laying sideways on a cramped couch, with my toe uncovered and frozen, but with a huge grin on my face (albeit heaviness of the heart) thinking of when I'll get that jolt of life ... that breath of air again?

Time is all there is. Time both crawls by and speeds past us in a blink. But certain things, although evolving in many ways, keep their core. My heart remains untouched. My words may look the same, but imagine me reading this to you in a place where only we belong...and you'll see the words are non-existant...or not important...

But, for tonight, they had to find their way out into the universe. They cannot be contained or diminished. The fight will continue and the rewards will be worth every single thing that shows up along the way.

Life is short...But let's make it long.

Counting my heartbeats...or the ticking of Love's clock,

Yari

Goodnight, Stimpy (Uncle Edwin's Story)

I scrambled out of my parents' beat up Mazda hatchback, slamming the door forcefully behind me. Mom's voice broke through the squeaking of the window of the car, making its way down slowly.

"Don't go to bed late and don't eat with your eyes, Yaritza!" She looked up at the grimy apartment and yelled, "EDWIN! EDWIN! Open the door! La nena is coming up!...EDWIN!"

By then I was climbing up the dirty tile stairs up to my uncle's latest apartment. The fifth one in the last 3 months. Tugging on the straps of my overstuffed backpack, I tripped on the final step...just as my uncle opened the door, saying "Be careful, Frijolita". I dusted my knees off, and gave him a hug. Dad honked as they drove away, with my uncle waving them off and grabbing the backpack off my back. I stepped into the hermetically sealed flat, looking at my home for the next few days like some sort of dusty museum of the random. I ran to the balcony and stood on the ledge looking down at the cars passing by the narrow street below, one flip flop falling off my foot as I balanced myself. "Yari! Are you crazy!?", I heard my uncle yell after me as he threw my bag on a corner of the couch and hurried to grab me by the waist, pulling you down from the ledge. I looked up and smiled as he put his giant hooded jacket on me, zipping me up while gnawing his lip...concentrated.

"We're going to grab dinner, pimpollita." Pimpollita means, literally, little bump or boil. I never knew why he called me that. "But tío, it's hot out, I don't need a jacket." "Yari, it's almost nightfall and we're walking a mile to the Chinese food place. I don't want you getting sick when it gets colder at night." So, out the door we marched along...in the 'cool' Puerto Rican eve. By cool, I mean low 70's and me sweating my tiny behind off the whole way to the restaurant for take out and back to the apartment. The whole walk went by with my uncle gripping my hand tight, till both our palms were uncomfortably sweaty...dragging me along the narrow streets downtown. He'd walk quickly, half muttering words to himself or making small noises with his mouth, popping his lips, sniffling his nose like he had allergies, gripping my hand tighter every few steps and tugging his shirt collar over and over. Once back in the apartment, we'd sit quietly on an old dinning room set for two in his poorly-lit kitchen. I'd look over at the sink while we ate, and count the coffee mugs waiting to be washed.

“Tío…”, I’d pipe up from my side of the tiny table. “Hmm..?”, he’d acknowledge without looking up from his plate, gripping a balled up napkin on his left hand, almost like one would hold a rosary while saying silent prayers over and over. “When’s the last time you did the dishes?”, I’d ask carefully, trying to not make him feel judged. He looked up and methodicallyuncrumpled the napkin he had been clinging to, wiped his mouth over and over and pushed whatever ball of food he was chewing on at the moment to his right cheek while he answered. “Those are from today. I felt like drinking coffee. Just used a clean mug every time”, he said looking into my eyes and winking at me. I smiled, thinking he looked like a chipmunk holding his food in one side of his mouth, cheek puffed up. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with my feet dangling from my chair, toes slightly scraping the cool marble floor.

As soon as we were done, he’d grab our take out boxes and throw them in the trash. I watched, waiting for the routine. My uncle was a living routine. At least that’s what I thought…Uncle Edwin sure acts funny sometimes.

The trashcan was already empty before he put our take out boxes in it. Two small boxes in a completely empty trash bag. He’d reach under the sink and pull out the air freshener, bug killer spray and a new bag. He’d spray the freshener inside our trash, over and over. Sweep, spray…sweep, spray. Cover the freshener, check on the lid, check on the lid, smell the bag, uncover the freshener and spray again, cover the freshener, check on the lid, tug on the lid and put the freshener on the counter. Pull the bag out of the trash can, tie it once…twice…three times…tug on the knot…tie it once more, shake the bag, tip the bag, check for leaks, inspect the floor around the trash bag. Grab the bug spray, spray the bag, cough, Yari coughs, spray the bag, ask Yari to cover her nose with her shirt, cough, shake the bag, spray the bag, spray the trash can, ask Yariif she’s ok, cough, spray the bag. Put the bag on the tip of his shoes, so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and cover the bug spray. Tug on the lid, check the lid, check on the lid, uncover the spray, cover it again to make sure it clicks, again…check on the lid, tug on the lid, check on the freshener one more time, check the bug spray again, put both under the sink and announce he was taking the trash to the dumpster across the street.

I ran to the bedroom window, which let you see the stairs and the alleyway he had to cross to throw the trash. I was to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happened…in this quiet part of town with no traffic or pedestrians. He walked down the stairs, stopped halfway and checked his pocket for his keys and looked back at the door. He climbed back up to the door, tried the key out to make sure it would open it, then locked it again. I felt him jiggling the handle a few times then try the key once more. Opened the door, closed it. Locked it. Walked down the stairs, checked the pocket for keys. Moved the keys from back pocket to front pocket and sighed, calling out my name “Yari…don’t open the door for anyone, oiste? I’ll be right there.” “Okay, I’m watching you. There’s no cars coming, hurry up so we can play Risk”, I yelled back. He shushed me, and headed down the rest of the steps, continuously checking his pockets and pulling the keys. He jogged to the dumpster and threw the bag in, closed the lid. He turned around, walked a few steps…then went back to the dumpster and rattled the lid. He then opened it and looked inside, then slammed the lid. Walked away, looked back...and I could tell he was struggling against his need to go back another time to make sure the trash was inside the dumpster, where he left it. I watched him dart up the stairs and lock the door a few times once he was back inside.

By now, his ritual had taken up most of our night...I looked up at the clock on his grimy wall and it was already 9:15 p.m. I sighed, and waited for him to say the words that would bring our night to an end...a long, drawn out end. "Charito, I'm gonna get the restroom ready so you can shower and we can go to bed. Go get your clothes ready. Your bag is on the top bunk bed". Yes, my 34 year old uncle slept on bunk beds. Anyways, I ran off and while I was gathering my pajamas, I heard the unmistakable sound of a chancla smacking against the bathroom wall or floor...killing a roach. I cringed and waited for him to get the shower going. He came out and told me to hurry up before I used up all the hot water. I went in and gave the bathroom a quick inspection, making sure the deceased was still squashed on the floor and hadn't reanimated to seek vengeance when I was mid-shower. After my shower, I got into my Batman pajamas (yes, they were boy pajamas, don't judge) and climbed to the top bunk to untangle my mane of curls. Through my curls I looked at my uncle do his thing...again.

He looked for his clothes. Stared in the mirror. Took out his contacts. Looked at the mirror for a long time. Opened the drawers, remembering he already had the clothes, closing the drawers. Looking in the mirror. Securing the contact lenses case over and over. Sniffling his nose even though he didn't have allergies. Excessive blinking. Licked his lips, bit his lips, cleared his throat. Look out the window. Look in the mirror. Check his drawers for clothes, look at the bottom bunk and seeing clothes there. Sitting on floor and taking off his sneakers and socks, placing them perfectly against the wall. Sniffling his nose. Biting his lip. Clearing his throat...looking up at me "I'll be right back, frijolita". Once in the restroom, I knew it would be at least an hour before he came out...so I laid in the top bunk, staring at the ceiling that ended up being entirely too close. I scanned the edges of the ceiling for spiderwebs...or worse...spiders. Nothing. Cars zooming by. His throat clearing. The shower going. Clock ticking. Cars zooming. Silence. The banging of him dropping the soap. The sound of him throwing said soap away and opening a new one. Clearing his throat. Mumbling. An hour later, the door opening and the smell of Irish Springs flooding the hallway, into the room.

He was dressed in jeans, a Lacoste polo and a belt. It made no sense to me...any of it. He was going to bed...so why dress up? But it was my uncle Edwin...who always had something "off" about him. We were taught to just accept it. It is who he is and he never harmed anyone by being himself. Either way, he stood in front of the mirror...nose sniffling, clearing his throat and grabbed the hair brush. I counted...he had a pattern, of course. He'd hold his forehead skin while he brushed his hair roughly 15 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then put gel, then brush it roughly 20 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then comb it to the front...then to the side...then to the other side...then his fingers through it...then his bangs...then comb it back...then brush...(you get it). After 15 minutes of hair brushing, he'd put clean socks and his sneakers back on. Why? Why? Don't ask Yari, just watch. He looked in the mirror...and at my reflection from the corner of the mirror and make a funny face. I giggled, eyelids heavy...exhausted from watching him. How did he do this every day? How did he ever get anything done? He fixed his polo collar, tucked in his shirt and fixed his jeans to cover the top of his sneakers...and pulled his jeans up and spent 10 more minutes rolling up and pulling down his socks until they 'felt right'. Then jeans back down, over his sneakers, then brush his hair...look in the mirror and gnaw his lip. Finally...Lord...finally, he crawled into the bottom bunk bed and turned on his cd player with T-Rex or The Beatles on. I smiled, tapping my toe on the wall to the beat..and waited for it.

He would yawn in an exaggerated way, clear his throat loudly and say, in a goofy voice "Goodnight, Ren". I grinned in the dark and, in the same voice, said "Goodnight, Stimpy".

...If you've followed me this far on this post, I commend you. It exhausted me to think of his ritual, and utterly drained me to type it. But, hang on. There's a point to the back story, and its this:

When I was a bit older, I went on a trip to visit my family in Pennsylvania, and my uncle Edwin came with us. If you haven't guessed by now, he has severe OCD and slight schizophrenia. Manic depression. Name every possible mental health issue, and he probably has it. He hadn't traveled outside his hometown, since he moved back there from NY when he was 7. He only left his house for work or a quick errand. He never slept away from his house. So, needless to say, this trip to PA had him more on edge than usual...but with much persuasion from my grandmother, my father and other aunts...we managed to get him on board.

We were scheduled to stay for 2 weeks at my aunt's house in Allentown, PA. It was my parents, my grandmother (dad's side), my uncle Edwin and yours truly. We arrived on a Tuesday evening, around 10 p.m. and after the typical 'catching up', everyone trickled to their rooms for some sleep. I was sharing an empty bedroom (my aunt had just moved in, didn't have furniture) with my uncle. We were in sleeping bags and a tiny heater in the corner...it was winter. I woke up at around midnight, to quiet crying. When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped a few times when I saw my uncle, knees cradled against his chest and leaning his back against the wall...mumbling to himself and kind of crying. "Edwin...", I whispered. He looked over at me...but didn't really see me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever experienced. I didn't know if he had snapped...what do I do? I'm 10.

I slowly slid out of my sleeping bag, and walked out of the room. I got my Dad, who was incensed that Edwin (whom he teasingly called "Sassy") couldn't just be normal and let us have a decent night's sleep.

"Leave him alone, Carlos. Be soft with him...", my aunt whispered as she walked behind him to go help defuse the situation.

Dad barged into the room, I was leaning against the hallway wall outside. "Sassy. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep unless I'm in my bunk beds. I can't sleep. I want to go home. Take me home. I don't want to be here. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds...", my uncle cried over and over.

"Edwin, you freaking idiot, you don't need your bunk beds to sleep. And why are you sleeping in your jeans and sneakers? How are you supposed to relax with all that clothes on? Who the hell do you think you're going to meet at night that you're dressed like that?", Dad barked. "Millie, are you seeing this? He still sleeps with his shoes on. This is Mom's fault. She never made him take them off as a kid. Edwin! Stop crying!"

"Carlos, don't be so rough with him! If he wants to sleep dressed like that let him!", my aunt Millie yelled.

"Don't call me Sassy in front of the nena, Carlos!", my uncle Edwin whined back...referring to me.

"I will call you Sassy. Because you're a Sassy little girl. Pansy. Why can't you just go to sleep? I'm not taking you home. You're here for two weeks. Get used to it! Shut up and go to sleep, Sassy girl", Dad snarled.

"Don't call me that!", Edwin yelled. "Carlos! Leave him alone!...Edwin do you want to sleep on my bed? Is that better?", my aunt said softly. Edwin started mumbling about his bunk beds over and over and over. Non stop. Rocking back and forth.

"What's wrong with Edwin...?", my grandmother's voice came from down the hall.

"Nothing! He's being a baby. This is your fault, Mom. Look at him! You let him do whatever and indulged his weird habits and look at him now!", Dad yelled.

"Carlos! You're worse than he is making this scene! You're supposed to calm him down!", my aunt yelled.

"Well does anyone need coffee and a sandwich? I'm already up and in the kitchen making one for me...Edwin, quieres cafe?", grandma screamed from the kitchen. "Yari, here have a sandwich and coffee..."

"Mom!!! Stop feeding her all the time! It's 1 o'clock in the morning and you're giving her coffee!", Dad said while coming out to the hallway...face red...eyes agitated..."Yari! Don't you dare eat that sandwich this late at night! Your Mom's gonna kill me for giving you food all the time! Mom! MOM stop making sandwiches!"

"Carlos, please lower your voice I'm getting a migraine...", my aunt whispered.

"I'm leaving. I can't sleep here. I want my bunk beds. Carlos take me to the airport right now!", cried my uncle from the doorway.

And in the sea of finger pointing, resentment and coffee...I spoke up.

"Edwin, do you want to sleep on the couch? I'll lay on the floor next to you and it'll feel like bunk beds. You'll be higher and I'll be lower, right next to you...", I asked carefully.

Edwin paused for a second...and smiled. "Okay, frijolita. But be careful that I don't squash you".

So...the crowd dispersed...and I brought my sleeping bag to the living room floor, next to the couch. My uncle settled on the couch. The lights turned off. The apartment got quiet. He twist, he kicked, he turned, he sighed...The digital clock in the living room now read 2 a.m. He twist, he kicked...he was having a hard time. I reached my hand up and rubbed his forearm and said "Goodnight, Stimpy". He sighed and I could almost hear him smiling..."Goodnight, Ren". Sleep.

The next morning my grandmother, aunt and parents left to go sight seeing. Edwin, the hermit, refused to go...so I stayed with him. All day...

My family got back to the apartment at around 4 p.m. that afternoon...my dad slowly opening the front door into the living room.

"Oh..my...EDWIN! WHAT DID YOU DO?!", Dad yelled.

"Oooooh myyyy GOD. Edwin...are you insane?! THIS IS MY LIVING ROOM! Oh my God Oh My God my head...Oh My GOD!", my aunt said...a pained expression on her face...grabbing her head.

"What's wrong?! Is Edwin ok?? What's wrong?!", asked my grandma, still outside and unable to look into the living room.

"YES, MOM, Edwin is FINE. Look! Look at what he did!", Dad screamed. "Are you freaking crazy, Sassy?? You bought a BUNK BED? You bought a bunk bed and set it up in a living room?? Of someone else's house?? Edwin what were you thinking?!"

"Ay Dios mio, Edwin but where did you get a bunk bed?? How did you set it up! Yari! Why didn't you stop him from buying it!?", my aunt sighed.

"I'm going to make coffee...I can't handle this right now...", my grandmother sighed, making her way to the kitchen and taking in the scene:

Edwin and I, sitting on the top bunk. Both of us in pajamas and eating a huge bowl of Cheerios...watching cartoons...

My aunt walked away. My dad stared at us, shaking his head..."Yari, eating a huge bowl of cereal? Your Mom's going to kill you...or me. God dammit, Sassy."

...It's 3:13 a.m. Goodnight, Stimpy.

Come Pick Me Up

I feel lost, alone…like a kid that was left behind in an amusement park. The rides are fun, they are a distraction…but at some point you want to find the person you came with so they can hold your hand and guide you back home. Does he try walking back home? Why didn’t anyone notice he was gone…not in the car on the way back? Did they mean to leave him there?

There are glimpses of how things could be. Could. I hate that word. I hate maybe, could, wish. Saying something could be ok or better, means you have no faith at all in it every coming to fruition. It’s admitting all you’re doing is sitting and waiting for things to magically happen, and if they don’t, you won’t fight to at least get the ball moving or move forward. You accept what is and remain stagnant.

I feel like…I’m chastised for not daring to dream, for being sad, for feeling normal things anyone feels…For feeling real emotions and staring them in the face, trying to work my way through them. Then I turn around and push the negativity aside, and dare to hope…only to be told “Well don’t go hoping too much, this is real life, not a youngster’s dream. Could. Perhaps”. So what is it? Do you want me to hope and try to be happy? Or do you want me to be a realist and live my life in the box I’ve been in my whole life? Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Don’t be sad. Don’t be happy. What am I supposed to be?

It’s a bit disheartening when people who are supposed to be by your side, encourage you to chase after something, are the first ones to cut your wings before you take off. As a friend, it is their duty to tell you of some details you may be ignoring on your quest for something new. Understood. But to look at the situation and point out how it’s bound to fail because it doesn’t follow some sort of pre-manufactured recipe for success is of help to no one. If we all followed the same rules and lived our lives according to what worked best for someone else…wouldn’t that pretty much guarantee we are bound to be unhappy forever? You like oranges. Oranges make you feel safe. Oranges work for you. Oranges make your life complete. Guess what? If I ate oranges as much as you did, or put all my trust in them, I’d be dead. Literally. I’m diabetic. Can’t have oranges all the time. Half a banana is what keeps me alive and is good for me. You hate bananas? What a predicament.

Silly example? I know. But sometimes I would like for just a bit of support from others…at least if they love me. Life isn’t scripted. Life isn’t perfect. There are no white picket fences. Beauty fades. Money fades. Some people have goals that include big names, titles…grandeur. Recognition. Good for them. That makes them happy. That’s not my cup of tea. I want to, well, live. I want to walk outside and not be thinking “I hope someone notices I’m wearing this or I can afford that. I hope I get a pat on the back for being a big shot and rubbing elbows with important people”. I want a peaceful life, where I can be passionate about what matters to me. Love. Family. Freedom. Music. Art. None of those things pay the bills…but all of those things are what make up what I value most, have always valued most in my life. The bills will be there. Work will be there. I have no desire to be known for wearing a power suit. I want to be remembered when I’m gone, for loving whole-heartedly. For giving my hand when needed. For contributing peace, equality, basic rights to this world. If I ever have a child, I want the kid to grow up knowing what matters most. What we take to the grave. We don’t take possessions. We take memories, life triumphs, loving moments. We take life with us. I want her to remember me for being there with her, dancing in the living room and being silly on random afternoons. I want her to always carry with her the I love you’s I told her through the day. To take my voice with her, and hopefully my advice. To remember my eyes and how hard I tried to pass on to her the good memories that were passed on to me. Not that I was busy making a name of myself so I could afford to give her material things, missing key moments in her life. Quality of life. Everyone talks about it, but does anyone really know what makes their life worth living? Even if you have to work hard to keep your family afloat in these tough times, those few minutes a day you take to actually LIVE your life, share yourself with others…we always remember that. Always. I had an outstanding childhood. We were dirt poor, I seldom had new toys, and my first cell phone was at 18 with my own money…and I can truly say I LOVED my childhood. Because my parents were my best friends and I never lacked memories. They were free. They were good. They will never fade. Which is why I share them with you, friends. Because they were too beautiful for me to keep for myself.

I want to walk out the door every morning, knowing I am about to change someone’s life that day. In a tiny, insignificant way…or in a larger scale. I want to share myself.

Someone come pick me up, will ya? The park is closing…they’re turning off the rides and it’s getting dark. I’m hungry. I’m cold. My feet hurt. I just want to go Home.