“Do not throw away George’s car magazines.”
“Keep porch light on for George.”
“Keep Coke cold in fridge for George.”
I read the messages day in and day out, wondering why my Mom and George can’t just say out loud what they need to say and then be done with it. And of course I also wonder how my life would be different if my name were on those reminders rather than George’s.
As the year rolls on, Mom’s messages make their way beyond the painted kitchen cupboards, the felt covered furniture, and the aging electronics toward the bathroom tile, and down the hallway wall.
The peculiar pieces of paper creep closer and closer to me, Toni and Grandma’s bedrooms, telling, telling, telling us, hey you have to keep on top of another one of George’s needs.
George’s needs.
George’s needs.
My room is the only place I can escape the messages, so I spend more and more time here, under the covers, safely sandwiched in my bed. I want to come out of my room, but first I have to feel good about doing it.
When I’m alone in my room, I think about how passing time might make you look older on the outside, but it can’t guarantee any change on the inside. Just like crossed bridges don’t necessarily get you anywhere if they’re leading you around on a circular road. Nothing about life magically gets you anywhere on its own accord. You have to help it along.
So I fill my chest with air and dare to dream of something better for myself. I conjure up a crisp picture, filling it with great details about how I want my life to look and feel way into the future—a time where the taped handwritten messages of my past have long since faded, gotten brittle and crumbled to dust, erasing any evidence of a stranger’s needs ever having been put before mine.
Excerpt from Help Is On Its Way - A True Story by Jenna Forrest
Part 4 | (Part 1)
