So my place that changed my life forever is the airport, I met a lady online and we became friends, and we talked for at least 4 to 8 hours a day or until the phones would disconnect, and after sending letters and pictures ( she made me guess which one she was ( I was able to) we had it planned for August 8th, I was going to pick her up from the airport after all she was coming from South Dakota and I was in South Carolina, I had told my boss about her and her panicked saying BE CAREFUL ( I DIDN’T care there was something about this Amazing young lady and I was LOOKING FORWARD to finally meeting her) The day came and I was Early and she flew in to the Gsp airport and was 10 minutes early, I told her to get back on the plane.When we met , WOW, and Time stood still, That moment August 8th, my life changed FOREVER, we have been married for 20 years together for 22 and Still going Strong.Im thankful she didn’t get back on the plane (: she may not have gotten off) She wouldn’t fly back home, Cause this is Where our story starts.My wife, my best friend, it all started with love at the Gsp

Well, here we are.

If I were to have a calendar in front of me, I would mark this time as one of two most dreaded days.

I remember some things so vividly, while more important things have somehow slipped away. I can’t remember your voice. 19 years.

I still carry around my emotional baggage, which holds my guilt, my fears, and my sorrow. We had so many good times…bad times too, of course, but I remember really only the good times.

So many stories, secrets, hopes and dreams, dashed away so quickly. I should have acted. I should have made time to go to the doctor with you. I should have demanded you be seen. The promise I made to you in the hospital room, as I hovered near your ear and played with your hair is still one that I hold to; though it has started fights and maybe handicapped him a bit, I continue to protect your son.

Oh, Amy, when he sings, and he thinks no one is listening, it is reminiscent of you. Not recording your voice is such a regret, but who could have known things would go so bad, so quickly.

I remember stupid things about the actual day, like the weather. On the day of your passing, it was beautiful. While friends stood next to you saying goodbye and weeping, I went and sat alone by the window. The sky had not one cloud in it. Your arrival in heaven was inviting. The day of your service, however, was cold…so cold, and rainy and gray. It seemed to match the occasion perfectly.

I miss you. Those words aren’t nearly as strong as the emotion behind them. I’m stuck in grief. I think of you and cry almost every day. I still want to pick up the phone to share some movie you’d like, or a random, “Do you remember when…”. Is there a phone in heaven?

In that hospital room, I whispered my promises in your ear. Did you hear them?

I am so proud being your sister. I pledge to make you that proud of me. And heaven better ready when my time comes…I desperately await our reunion.

I love you, my sister,

Dear Rehab,

When I met you, I wasn’t myself.

I came to you from the floor below,
still trembling —
from withdrawal, sleep-starved delusions,
or some bitter cocktail of both.
A fog so thick
I couldn’t tell the walls
from the weight pressing on my chest.

You were sterile and white,
like the hollow shell of a second chance.
I hated you.
I feared you.
And yet —
something in me stayed.

The first night, I tried to run.
My mind rebelled,
dragging my body with it,
until I landed alone
in a room meant for two.

Blanket draped like a shawl.
I wrapped myself in whatever warmth I could find.
That blanket became my armor.

My journal—my confessional.
Your little track—my ritual.
Forty-eight laps a day, chasing pieces of myself in circles.
Hoping they’d fit back together.

I hardly spoke at first.
But group cracked me wide open.
Especially when someone new arrived —
loud with rage or quiet with sorrow.
I recognized them.
We all did.
And it broke me.
Then, slowly, it rebuilt me.

I learned how to create again.
Beaded jewelry with trembling hands.
Scribbled thoughts like soft confessions.
Songs that clung to me like sunlight.
I wrote in my journal like it was scripture.
Your walls didn’t flinch
when I colored outside the lines.

You never asked me to be perfect.
Only honest.
Only present.

And in that presence,
I became someone new.

When I left you,
I felt like a child again —
fragile, raw, but holding something rare:
hope.

I didn’t want you.
I didn’t think I needed you.
But sometimes the most sacred places
are the ones we fight hardest to accept.

And now, when the world grows quiet,
I still hear you —
not your silence,
but the voices of every soul I met within you.

Their pain.
Their healing.
Their stories,
stitched into mine.

If I ever return,
let it be with open hands —
to offer what I once came seeking.

With Reverence,

(ProWritingAid Style Score 100%)

Stars and Stripes Gymnastics Academy,

You gave me a home outside of home. Somewhere I could release my anger and frustrations through power and strength. You taught me discipline and how great the reward can be when you stick to something and commit. Through you, I learned how to listen to what my body is asking for while also pushing the limits of what I think I can do with it. Because of you, I pushed through pain, building resilience against things that hurt me. You taught me that my mind is more powerful than anything else and that the mind controls the body. I learned just how incredible and strong my body can be when I don’t let my mind get in the way. I found friends, laughter, memories, and a place to release my inner child and my inner fire. You gave me a place to be myself.

You also instilled an expectation of perfection in me that has been hard to break. You put me in a position to be judged for years, a feeling that bled through my body as it changed. A mindset that being perfect was always the goal, and while a part of that was true when I spent time with you, I carried it within me outside of you.

After leaving you, I spent years wondering if I was good enough. How can I be a perfect ten? Can I attain the perfection I trained for as an adolescent? How do I stop trying to be so perfect? I stretched, strengthened, conditioned, cried, flipped, fell, bent, broke, and quit while spending time with you. I could say that you shaped me into who I am today. You fed something within me, and I will always love and appreciate you for that, but you also broke me. I don’t blame you though, because it was a part of my journey. I know now that sometimes you break in order to come back stronger, and that is exactly what I did.

Thank you, Stars and Stripes Gymnastics Academy, for teaching me mind-body connection. I appreciate you showing me that there are no limits when fear is not around. You helped the version of me that is writing this letter recognize how important physical activity is and just how far a little discipline goes. Thank you for being a place where I could release and be free. Most importantly, thank you for sending me on a journey to true self-love and acceptance. Because of you, I can blend my dedication and drive with my recognition of rest and patience. I know that for me, the best outlet for releasing unacknowledged energy is through exercise. I know that there is no such thing as perfect, but that my love for my imperfections is exactly what makes me perfect. Saying goodbye was so hard because you helped shape me into the person I am today. You will always be a piece of me, and I love you for that.

Yours truly,

Sam

Dear Shop of Stories,

I walk in and am hit with the strong scent of antiseptic and adrenaline. To me, though, it feels like a confessional.

I remember walking in scared that first time, not because of the pulsating needle, but I was scared of being seen. I wasn’t there to be rebellious or to ruin my body. I was there because I needed to remember something. Someone. Myself.

There weren’t many questions asked, I just got pointed to the chair and nodded like I understood. With a small buzz and a slow, careful, gentle hand, you gave me my sister’s handwriting, looped and familiar, across my right forearm. My first tattoo. A permanent reminder of her voice, even when she’s not around to say the words out loud, and we grew miles apart.

The second one came months later, in the form of my middle name, tucked beneath my collarbone. The comfort of the leather chair, the needle buzzing again, but this time I was excited. A name I used to hide, then later learned to reclaim. It was never about vanity, but something to express my newfound love of the favorite version of me. It wasn’t my name directly, but rather, images that told stories, and explained the love I had for three letters.

Then came the picture of Icarus. Not because I wanted to glorify his fall, but because I needed to honor his flight. Glorious wings spanning the back of my upper arm, reaching for something just out of frame, just off of my skin. A reminder that even if I crash, at least I tried.

The shop, the artist, everyone, they never judged the reasons I came back. Never treated the ink like trends, or believing I was stupid for wanting a certain image or specific words. I just kept getting handed the mirror and the ink, letting me rewrite the parts of me that once felt too fragile to hold.

Slowly, my arms got covered in stories, stitched in black permanence, in lines and curves, a visible roadmap of my life. Of surviving. Of growing and becoming me.

It didn’t just change how I looked. It made me remember who I was.

Sincerely,
The Girl Who Wears Her Life Story in Ink

Dear PT21946,

Your peach colored walls and flaked paint live in my memory. So does the slick tile and the bathroom pipe. Oh, that pipe that the workers sabotaged with rocks, because the company didn’t pay their migrant contract. I don’t mind, really, I’d do that same trick. I’d like to stick it to the man too.

The day your pipe back flowed and I couldn’t quite cope, I simply shut that bathroom door. My mother-in-law however, made of sterner stuff, took care of that. I’m still sorry.

I can hear the grating noise of the front door grille as if it was just now. It’s been 18 years, and that’s a long time.

I wish for a few things that are probably still in your cubby space. I’d really love my nosey face mug collection. If you know where my clarinet is located, send it. I’ll pay the international rate.

Remember the children’s giggles, and the Humphrey Bear tv show? Do you remember the piano tunes we shared to pass the day? Do you remember the shouting and shoving? You alone listened to me cry at night. You saw the broken furniture. Maybe it is time to forget.

I miss the sun streaming through your master bedroom window, the designer kitchen with the funny cabinets, my children’s shoes lined up by the door. I’m sorry we left in a rush; the children have grown and gone. They are doing fine, yes.

I hope the neighborhood is friendly. I hope whoever cares for you now does better.

Love,
Ruth

Style score 100%

In March,
It rests forgotten. Abandoned, neglected, alone. You
used to visit It, befriended It once, but You’d
always leave and forget. Left It asking for You
to return. But You were two on-and-off lovers, except You
didn’t even know Its name.

In April,
You remember that You need to bend Your knees. It calls to You,
so this time You answer, walk to It. It listens as You
tell It Your woes. Anchor deployed.

In May,
You almost forget once again, but You
return. The sun is now warm enough for You
and It to soak it up, so You and It
do so together. The Adirondack chairs have returned and You
begin to look for new life.

In June,
You visit It many times. Shared salt water becomes Your
currency. It gives You wind when You
need Your thoughts blown away. You
embrace the dizzying nature of the place, with
maple leaves inducing a welcoming vertigo. You
let It speak to You when You can’t listen. You
feel It when It gives nothing for You to feel.

In July,
It attracts Others, but You don’t want to share Your
friend, Your caretaker. It is the beams that hold up
a house on the hill; those wooden supports can only belong
to one home. You asked It to build them under You.
Banter and smiles for the Others, but You
wish they would drown.

In August,
the sand burns Your toes and sun reddens Your
nose. Hot air begs Your lungs not to breathe.
Miniscule waves remind You that Your
ears still work. Minnows nibble on Your flesh and flies feast
on Your sweat. It’s what you need.

In September,
You wonder if You can still float. You
can’t feel Your arms or legs, but It
is a beacon for limbless buoys and people alike.
Each grain of sand worth the same as a
fiddler crab, dead heron, browning stalk, or You.

In October,
You visit It alone. No one else cares for Your
place. It’s Yours in rain and cold and warmth and light.
It’s Yours.

In November,
a chill tries to keep You away from It, but no force can keep You
and It apart. You no longer go in Its waters, but You
sit cross legged in Its mud.

In December,
cold air hurts Your lungs in the way that the heat used to. But You
still remember that You can’t live without each other, so You
Keep coming back. Ice lines the shore in a way
that no magic could produce. Fractals hold each granule of sand together.
Fractals hold You and It together.

In January,
pink sunsets could be the only reason You
would come back, except the sky doesn’t know what It
means to You. Even gray days and lightless nights
provide no barrier between You and It.

In February,
nothing happens. But You prepare Yourself to start anew with It.
Another cycle awaits, news months incoming. You
will walk on water in a few weeks. You will come to It
even when You don’t need it.

In March,
I come back again. I have new eyes, new body, new perspective.
I know It will never be forgotten again. It gave and I took, and I
don’t need It anymore, but I want It.
And It will forever welcome Me back.

Dear Unsealers,

Bienvenue à Paris!

October 8th, 2012

After a long night’s journey into daylight, we’ve arrived in Paris. It’s just my sister and I with no parents for the very first time.

It still feels surreal to climb the steps of the Blanche Metro station. Metropolitan above our heads in wrought iron, the Moulin Rouge on the other side of the street. We’ve made it to our home base in Montmartre.

The winding streets going uphill. Past the Cafe 2 du Moulins, and Amelie’s portrait inside. The pink exterior of the cabaret, Au Lapin Agile, and the bronze bust of the chanteuse, Dalida.

At the top of the hill, the sacred heart of Paris. Arriving at the front doors of the imposing Basillaca de Sacre Coeur.

Even on a gray evening, one could see Paris’s skyline as far as the eye could see.

It was not the fever dream that’s been the last few months we’re actually in the City of Lights.

This moment happened with a huge measure of serendipity. Back in May, I got a phone call from Time Out New York saying that I won a round trip flight for two to Paris on XL Airways France.

I couldn’t believe it. I enter their contests every week and don’t win them. Until now.

The reality of the situation only hit me days later, after receiving a congratulatory email from the airline. And even then, I didn’t want to believe it until my feet touched down at Aeroport Charles DeGaulle.

As the days went on, where didn’t we go?!

Versailles, climbing up the Arc de Triomphe the D’Orsay, the Louvre, La Tour Eiffel. Cruising along the River Seine.

There were not so great moments too.

An allergic reaction, excessive wine consumption, and a missed train to London caused problems.

But we made it through the situations to enjoy the trip.

Thirteen years, and one more trip to Paris later, I realize how much the city held my story.

By showing for better and worse, that I can be more than the cerebral palsy allows.

I will say it every time… J’adore Paris!