The Timeless Letter

My mother wrote me a letter.

Then she folded it into two and then again. It was sealed in an envelope and all that was said couldn't be undone.

I read it before school, letting her firm instructions guide me; her reassurance embrace me.

I read it before camp. She warned me about mosquitoes, alcohol, pot, and unruly kids. She told me, even if I did get into those things, it would be for a while, and she would still love me.

I read it before that first kiss, it said good luck sweetie.

I read it before college. My mother warned me of unmanageable roommates, peer pressures, and loss. She told me I'd have fun.

I read it before my first funeral. It said to not cry unless you must, to wear black, and to be in silence. It said to make sure not to fall in.

I read it before my first shot. The letter questioned my judgment, strength, integrity.

I read it before my V card's time was up. It said be gentle.

I didn't read that letter for my second, third or fourth drinks.

No.

It had been more drinks than I could count.

I hadn't read the letter.

I read it before my girlfriend broke up with me.

I read it before I lost my job.

I read it before I went to rehab.

Mama, I can still smell the perfume you were using on the day you wrote it, and I can still see your eyes.

How do you know what to say at the right time?

I must have read that letter a million times and

I'll read it before I die.