Letter To My Younger Self By Ana Consuelo Matiella

Dear Ana,
There you are in that photo you keep by your desk. It is five days after your mother died. You are holding Sara on your lap. You are wearing shorts. That was a long time ago, you in shorts. Your hair is long, pulled back, your eyes, washed out from weeping. Your daughter is a year and a half old and she too looks sad. Why is that? She couldn’t have known that your mother had just died. Sara, like you, is gazing straight into the lens of that old Pentax. You had a camera then and you took black and white. You are in Flagstaff, because Artu thought that after the funeral, you would want to get away from the Tucson heat.
It was July.
It was good to get away and walk in Oak Creek Canyon behind your young husband with a baby in his green back-pack. It was a comfort to see the little urchin look back to see if you were still there.
You stopped to watch the clear water wash over the river stones and a yellow swallowtail brushed your shoulder. You called it your mother’s spirit. Not dead a week, already making the rounds.
You didn’t know that for the rest of your life you would look and always find at least one large yellow swallowtail making the rounds in July.

Ana Consuelo Matiella

Readers–I invite you to submit such a letter to the blog this month of July. Details in previous post.

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