Letters to Cybelle
My cousin Cybelle was killed in a car accident recently and, as I was going over her effects with my uncle, her father, I discovered these letters. They were written to Cybelle by her mother shortly before she died following a long illness. Each of the letters was delivered by Cybelle’s father, as her mother had requested, on her 5th, 11th, and 16th, and 21st birthdays.
17 September 1963
Dear Cybelle,
Happy Birthday, Plum. Daddy said he would read this letter to you today. There’s nothing I wish more in the whole spinning world than to be with you now when you become five years old. Imagine, that’s as many years as all the fingers on your hand put together.
I hope you like the seashell. It’s called a periwinkle and I found it when you and Daddy and I were at the beach last year. Do you remember? Your hair was braided in a long pigtail down your back and you were wearing a red swimsuit with blue polka dots, just like the color of the ocean, only everybody knows that the ocean doesn’t have polka dots. Daddy lifted you up on his shoulders and the three of us waded out into the waves. You squealed each time the water splashed over your toes. You said it felt like a big oozy monster was trying to gobble you up. But you weren’t afraid.
Then we went back to our beach blanket and had tuna fish sandwiches and apple juice. When we opened up the bag of chocolate chip cookies, we found the sand had gotten into it. So we just shook the sand off and ate them all anyway. Daddy told us he thought they tasted even better that way. Did you know that tuna fish live in the sea, just like the little animal who used to be curled up inside your periwinkle? That shell used to be his house. Do you think he snored when he slept?
I wonder how high you can count today. You would have to count for a long, long time (longer even than it takes to build a snowman) to count up all the creatures who live in the ocean. Daddy promised he would give you the biggest kiss for me and the biggest hug that anyone anywhere has ever gotten because I love you so much and I don’t want you ever to forget that.
You are very special. If you walked for miles and miles, or if you got on an airplane and flew over the clouds to the other side of the world, you would never find anyone else like yourself. I want you to be proud of that always. And to remember that every one of the millions of other people in the world is special, too.
I love you more than the sky is wide or the grass is green or lollipops are sweet.
Mommy
26 September 1963
Dear Cybelle,
One Christmas many years ago, my own mother gave me this pony pin, and I can’t think of anyone who it would look better on than you.
Happy 11th birthday, Sweetheart. The pin is made of cherry wood, and Mother told me it was whittled by an old man who was selling fruit at a roadside stand she passed one day while driving through the countryside. She said the man was as skinny as a flagpole, wore a tattered straw hat that perched on his head at a funny angle—like a hat on a rack—and he didn’t have a single tooth.
Where do you think the pony is galloping? Toward the mountains, where he can use his powerful muscles to climb its steep sides, then maybe to stand atop a high cliff so that he can look out over the green shining earth? Or is he cantering into the forest, where he can play amongst the birds and the dancing shadows of the tall trees? Or is he on his way to a river that glitters like silver in the sunlight and provides water for him and his family when they’re thirsty?
I’ve been thinking a lot these past weeks about what the world will be like when you receive this letter. I hope there are still many wild places left where you can run free like the pony. This planet is the home of every creature on earth, and it is a giver of many precious gifts. I know Daddy is teaching you to love and take care of the earth, just as you love and take care of all the gifts you receive. Be thankful for it, and spend as much time as you can in places that are wild and natural and quiet. They have much to teach you.
I’m closing my eyes and trying to imagine what you’ll look like today. Let me guess. At least a dozen freckles decorate each cheek, and your smile looks exactly like Daddy’s smile and you’re wearing a pink velvet ribbon in your hair. When I was your age, my favorite things to do were swimming, playing hopscotch and taking Louise for walks. Louise was our Boxer and she was very smart. One summer I took her to obedience class at the park and she won second prize. They gave us a little trophy with a red ribbon attached to it. Louise learned how to sit, stay, heel, and come when I called her. Well, most of the time anyway. And she loved Swiss cheese. Besides Chalice McPheeters who lived down the block, Louise was my best friend.
If I were there with you now, I would hold you so close and so tight that not even a butterfly’s wing could slide in between us. I hope you’re having a birthday party with lots of friends to help you celebrate. Of all the things in this world, including emeralds and great big houses and fancy cars and pretty clothes, friends are by far the best. Be a good friend always.
Well, Plum, I know that nobody wants to spend all day reading a letter on her birthday, so I’ll close here. Give Daddy a jumbo kiss for me.
I love you I love you I love you I love you.
Mommy
3 October 1963
Dear Cybelle,
I’m sorry that this letter isn’t in my own handwriting. I can’t lift a pen anymore, but every word on these pages in traveling directly from my heart to you, and Dad said he would write down every last syllable for me.
Happy, healthy, glorious 16th birthday, my not-so-little-anymore one. I’m watching you now, aged 4, sitting on the floor of the living room, seriously engaged in the art of finger painting—with more of that art on your face and overalls than on the paper—and trying to think of you as 16 years old.
It’s impossible. Or maybe I just don’t want to do it. When I think of you as you’ll be twelve years from now and know that I won’t be there to hold you when you’re sad or sick or frightened, to worry about you when you’re late coming home, to teach you how to sew a dress without a pattern, to sing rounds together, to show you the village in Wales where your great-grandparents were born, to brush your hair before a date, it makes me weep. So I won’t even try.
Because, Dearest, today is an occasion for rejoicing! This journal is for you. I suggest that you set aside at least fifteen minutes at the end of each day to write all your feelings and thoughts in it. Write your dreams, your doubts, your troubles, the good times. Write about the people in your life, about anything that thrills or confuses or touches you.
As you see yourself in the pages of your journal, you will begin to know yourself in a deeper way. And as you write down your observations of the world, you will see that world with greater clarity and compassion. That’s very important. I’ve discovered that the better I understand something or somebody, the less inclined I am to dislike or fear them.
You’ll be in high school now. What subjects do you enjoy most? Geometry? History? English? I loved biology. Do you know that high school was one of the happiest times in my whole life? There was so much to do and so many new things to find out about. There were football games and school dances and pizza and root beers at Vinny’s down the street when school let out. And there were science fairs. One year, Zach Whitcomb and I were chosen from our entire class to demonstrate the exhibits! Each semester we took field trips to places like the art museum and an ice cream factory where they gave us two giant scoops of the best chocolate fudge ripple I ever tasted. And on Saturday afternoons we usually went down to the Belvedere where we could see a double bill for a quarter. That’s where I first fell in love with Cary Grant.
I still remember Mrs. Clausen, my American history teacher. She spoke so slowly you were never quite sure if she was going to finish her sentences—but she did every time—and each Monday morning she brought a fresh bouquet of flowers from her own garden, which she put in a tiny lavender vase on her desk. Mrs. Clausen taught us how hard our country struggled to be free. She told us that nothing that is worthwhile in life is easy. From achieving freedom to learning how to play the piano to forgiving someone who has hurt you.
You’re nearly a woman. Your body is changing in wonderful ways. Like most 16-year-old girls, I’d wager there’s at least one thing about your body that you hate. For me, it was my crooked front teeth. They weren’t really very crooked, but nobody—not even my mother—could convince me that my teeth weren’t the only things people noticed when they looked at me. There isn’t a girl your age who hasn’t said to herself something like: “I’m too tall,” or “I’m too fat,” or “My breasts are too small,” or “My skin is too pale.”
Take pride in your body, but know that there are more important things than what you look like. Or what others look like. So take the time to focus your eyes beyond appearances. Ask yourself, is this person kind, or diligent, or honest? Think about the pearls that sometimes dwell inside the oyster’s plain, unadorned shell.
How many boyfriends would you have had by now? Half a dozen? Your sexuality is a gift. Treasure it and only share it with as much care as you would share your deepest secrets. And remember that broken hearts are as much a part of life as snow is a part of winter. Almost everyone has had their heart broken. And as snow melts, so hearts can mend. That’s the miracle. Protect your heart, but never allow anger or bitterness to let it close.
It’s drizzling now. Do you love the rain as much as I do, or have you inherited your father’s preference for warm, dry weather? You wouldn’t believe the shimmering orange and scarlet and burgundy leaves on the maple tree outside my window. It glows so brightly I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see it in the dark.
I’m sending to you across the mysteries of time and space (since I’m certain that neither is large enough to keep them from reaching you) bushels of pecks, squeezes that go on forever, and my love for you, Plum, which is imperishable.
Mom
7 October 1963
Dear Cybelle,
Happy birthday, Darling. Twenty-one years old! Such a momentous event. Isn’t it exciting? Do you like the teacup and saucer with the yellow tulips? They were made in England. Your father bought a set of six for me shortly after we were married, and when the earthquake roared through town the following year, this was the only one of the whole set left standing on the shelf. I know you won’t mind the small nick on the saucer.
That teacup holds so many memories for me. Many gentle and lovely, some sad. What is it about a cup of hot tea, with perhaps a dash of cinnamon, that enhances any occasion? I drank from it on nights when Dad and I would relax after dinner and share what happened during each other’s day. I drank from it while sitting with friends, talking for hours about everything from almond sponge cakes to zithers. While listening to the radio or writing letters. On chilly evenings when I was by myself, dreaming about the future, reflecting on the past or, maybe best of all, snuggling up inside the moment—whatever its hue—and simply letting its magic envelop me.
You’ll likely be in college now. My only advice is: Don’t let anyone else tell you what to do with your life. No matter how well intentioned or practical their opinions, or how old they are. Find something you love with a passion so deep you can’t see its bottom, then work at it ceaselessly till you become its master. but know that the process of mastering anything—be it the calling of aeronautical engineer, circus clown, or wife and mother—continues without end.
Right now I’m watching you sleep. No one could guess from the angelic look on your face what a mess you made of the kitchen this afternoon. You’re wearing pajamas with robins on them and a Raggedy Ann doll is sharing your pillow. Simon is snoozing at the foot of your bed—his front paw twitching—making sure that no harm comes to you when Dad and I go to bed. I don’t believe any mother has ever loved any daughter more than I love you, Plum. And tell Dad for me how much I love him, too. When you love somebody, let them know. Again and again.
A quarter moon is floating in the sky, peaceful as a lullaby, reminding me that it’s time now for me to sleep.
Mom
©Lucy Aron, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, January 27 1991
