Dear Jodie

dear jodie,

something that we have in common is our rabid chattiness and i am sure that you will appreciate how stupefying it is to feel speechless. i suppose that i don’t know what to say because i’m afraid that you won’t get to read this. i’m a fool sobbing at my desk but i’m running through a list of wishes that are driving me mad. i wish we could meet at el monte’s for an esteban like we did for my 21st birthday. i wish we could spend a spring morning in the park and feed the ducks until the rain comes. i wish i could twist the hand of every clock in the world backwards and tell you that i love you one more time. i wish i had every text you’ve ever sent me so i could always have all your words in my pocket. i wish that i knew you would be there to see effie grow up. but i don’t know if you’ll be here, jodie. el monte's is closed and you are sick.

yesterday, i crawled through clutter in my closet to retrieve a journal that i wrote in daily when i was pregnant. 

on may 30, 2013, i wrote: i’ve been going to a prenatal yoga class every tuesday and i love it. the teacher, jodie, knows mimi and walker. brad, too. fort collins is so wildly interconnected. of all the classes i could have walked into, i’m really glad that i walked into jodie’s class. she feels like another angel brought my way to guide me softly into motherhood.

on tuesday, july 16, 2013, i wrote down an affirmation that you shared in class: i send healing energy and vitality to my body.

i felt that whenever i was lying on the mat with my eyes closed. with lavender on the back of my wrist and a safe sigh in my chest i felt okay. no matter where i was coming from and no matter where i was going everything felt okay in that moment.

i love you most for letting me feel okay when i wasn't okay.

i hope you know that you have permission to feel okay too, jodie. no matter where you are coming from and no matter where you are going. maybe it’s all the same place in the end anyway. someplace like the sun on your cheek and a silence in a crowded room.

your sister,
anna