It was not my face that my mother saw on that unnaturally cold September day, but the face of a cruel and savage stranger. It was the day that she gave birth to me, the day that she chose to keep me and see that face for the rest of her life.
I’ll never know why she chose to make such an incredible sacrifice under the most deplorable of circumstances, but I would come to know that she lived with no regrets of it. She would defend my very existence—time and again, declaring that I was but a delicate flower born from the twisted root of a poisonous plant; and would further assert, that even some poisons are used in healing. But her family would hear none of it and I was not to be accepted. To them I was anything but a healing balm—my innocence lending them no comfort to my presence.
I was an abomination, plain and simple—a child born out of the malice of rape and rage; a mockery of decent, civilized folk. And as my grandmother would so callously put it, “…not to mention, a horse of a different color!”
But to my mother, I was beautiful. I was the absolute sunshine of her life and she loved me more than anything. She saw nothing different or lacking in me. All she saw was her precious baby girl who happened to have creamy caramel-colored skin, and crinkly hair the color of gold. As far as my mother was concerned, there was nothing more to see…and nothing more to be said of it. I was hers and she was mine, and the two of us would endure and conquer any and everything together…even until the day that death would come and do us part.
Little did we know on that unnaturally cold September day that her death would soon eclipse my birth, and—little did we know—that from my unseemly beginnings to her fragile ending, a bond of love would be forged so powerful and so strong as to transcend the boundaries of life and death, to reach far into the distance of time and space…to live forever in the heart of a little girl.
This is my mother’s story, and these are my Letters from Heaven.