Archive | October 2012

HANNAH BRENCHER

To: Holderofyourhand@gmail.com

From: Hannah.Brencher@gmail.com

Subject:

Message:

“I will make it through this… even it kills me.  Just hold me close. Please.”

Receipt: Message Sent.  January 25, 2011. 11:10am.

 

This single sentence, this single email, is all the proof I’ve ever needed to know that Depression has gnashing teeth.

That it sits on the lungs. That it sucks out the life. That it pales the face. That it creates prisoners.

The email was sent at 11:10am. Square in the hollow of January. A time when the tree branches cry for clothing on their skinny limbs and the snow on the New York City sidewalks browns five minutes after the falling.

I wonder where I was sitting. What shoes were on my feet. The moments that mounted before I tapped this email. If a peace flooded me after.  Either way, I shoved the message into an email and sent it off…

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HANNAH BRENCHER

I’ve been the other girl before.

Yea, I know, it ain’t the kind of news you bring with you to Thanksgiving dinner:

“Hey Aunt K… everything is going great… oh, that noise? That’s just the phone beeping. I’ve got a text message… It’s from a guy… No, he isn’t my boyfriend… No, he actually has a girlfriend already… Yea…So…Righttt….Pass the butter? “

I’ve been the other girl before and I learned (quickly, might I add) how very un-endearing the whole mess of it is. To your friends. To your family. To your own self when you finally shut off the phone at night and curl up beside the fact that he isn’t yours… Really… He. Isn’t. Yours. And out there, somewhere, is a girl you’ve never met before but you’ve managed to wreck her heart without her even knowing it yet.

Cue the point in this post where I squirm and say that…

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HANNAH BRENCHER

Yesterday, two years ago, my life changed in a forever sort of way.  God dug a purpose deep in my heart. It took me a year to realize but it was two years on the Yesterday that the digging began.

Yesterday, two years ago, I left the girl I once was behind. A girl of my Yesterday. I haven’t written her since. This letter was overdue.

It’s been two years.

Two long, gaping, shifting years since the day I last looked you in the face and tried to strike a deal.

Don’t you remember how we always tried to strike a deal? Tomorrow we’d try happier. Our clothes would fit a little looser. We’d be more graceful and carry less awkward into the conversations we held. We’d be wittier. Yes, wittier. A little stronger. We wouldn’t wilt like yesterday. We’d try mostly, as hard as we could, to stop focusing…

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