We Only Breathe For So Long

The box was large. I opened it, finding more space than content inside of it. Before the rush I received from opening the box rapidly, I didn’t wonder about what might’ve been in the box. It could’ve been anything, from old belongings to a body mutilated in pieces. The fact that I was home alone rang in the back of my mind, making me fear to think any further about what might have been inside of the mystery box.

Inside, I found a photo album and a tape with an envelope right on top of it. Curiosity made me reach my hands out to grab the photo album quite fast, weighing my arms down as I surprised myself with its unapparent weight. I sat down, giving my knees a break, and placed the photo album on my lap. My other hand was still aiming the flashlight to wherever my eyes were upon.

The hard cover had a beige tone of color. There were two little frames where pictures could be fitted in, but there were none preoccupying the empty space. I opened it, paging through the pages ever so gradually. The first couple of pages contained pictures of my mother. Her hair, always perfectly straight, flew along with the wind’s direction, causing her nose to scrunch in annoyance yet a smile to hover on her face. Her eyes were closed tightly, wrinkles marked her skin close to the corner of her eyes. She had her right hand stretched forward, probably pleading Dad to stop taking pictures of her beauty. It seemed like a serene day at the beach. It looked isolated. No one was around where the photograph was taken. All that could be seen was the ocean, shore, and my mother.

I flicked the page, becoming more intrigued and captured by the photo album the more photos I’d seen. The next set of photos was of my mother and little me. The resemblance was faultless. It could be clearly perceived where I had inherited my appearance. The only thing I had gotten from my dad was his eyes, making others confused when they debated whether or not I looked more like my mother or father. The remainder of the photographs was of the entire family: my mom, dad, and I.

At this point, I couldn’t control the tears any longer. I smiled while the tears fell, overwhelmed at the feeling that nearly suffocated me. I didn’t know which emotion it was exact, but it was either happy or sad –perhaps a mixture of both, along with pain.

When the photos were finished and the blank pages increased its numbers, I speedily pulled the pages back, and started observing the photos all over again. One of them reminded me of my first day at school. I had a dorky backpack that my mother had picked for me, together with a matching lunch box. I looked like the happiest child around, posing in front of my very first school. I wasn’t looking at the camera. My eyes gazed up at the person who was taking the picture. Just beneath this photograph, there was a picture of my dad and I when I was still a child. I was holding a sign saying ‘Happy Fathers’ Day’ and my spelling skills were terrifying, but so was my handwriting. Yet that wasn’t capable to keep a smile from my dad’s face. His eyes complemented his smile because it was just as kindhearted. On the next page, I found numerous photos of a family vacation we had to Greece when I was 12 years old.

A wave of emotional exhaustion hit me, making me long to see no more. I closed the photo album, putting it aside, and trying to get rid of the headache I gained as a consequence for crying. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, attempting to clear my mind entirely. Feeling more drained than I ever felt before, I picked up the envelope that was stuck to the tape. I pulled it forcefully yet subtle, as my fingers ran through the paper swiftly. I tore the envelope, unraveling a letter.

I immediately recognized my mother’s lovely handwriting.



Most of the ink from the paper was now smudged. My tears were uncontrollable, falling against my own will. After reading and contemplating her words whilst touching the same paper she had written upon, I could barely see. I was glad to be home alone, knowing that nobody could overhear my loud sobs.

I forgot about it all. About how miserable I felt during the past days, about everyone I’ve ever known in my life and all of my thoughts that troubled me on a daily basis. I forgot about it all, except her words. I read it countless times, overwhelmed with her letter.

I’d smile now and then at her witty comments, but I’d smile even more when I imagined the sound of her voice as I read the letter for the millionth time. I didn’t understand some of the things she had written because it didn’t make any sense.

The tape.

It would explain it all. It would brighten my mind, allowing me to understand what all her words meant. I got up on my knees, reaching for the tape that remained inside of the box. I rushed down the stairs to the living room so I’d be able to play the tape. With the letter clutched near to my chest, I inserted the tape inside of the VHS device. I lingered patiently for a video output, but the blank television stared back at me, reflecting my appalling exterior.

My mother’s face occupied the screen. My tears began to drop as reckless as a cascade. She was sitting on a leather chair, surrounded by baby blue walls behind her. The scene looked tranquil. Her hair was a shade lighter because of an unseen light that was placed above her, and her eyes were a brighter shade of blue. She wore a simple, black top and she appeared to be fatigued.

“Are you ready?” a voice in the background asked, reminding her she only had a few minutes to do this. She nodded her head, lowering her gaze to the floor and breathing in, composing herself to do whatever she was about to do.

Seconds later, she looked up to the camera and flattened her posture. She looked determined, focused and her eyes held hope. I sat down on the couch, mesmerized by my mother’s perfection through the display. I felt connected with her somehow.

“I hope you read my letter before watching this,” she said, trying to carry out a smile on her lips. “I meant every word in it.” My mother had always been emotional, and owing to that fact she was starting the process of crying as her eyes became glassy.

“The accident was fast and fatal for people who witnessed it. Your father wasn’t too much of a perceiver, and neither were you, to comprehend what had truly occurred. I planned it all.”

Her words made the blood that travelled through my veins freeze in astonishment. I almost fell over backward. For a second I thought I was going to faint –my skin felt icy. A dozen images flashed through my mind: her smiling face, her warm blue eyes, and the sudden change of expression when she saw the vehicle extremely late. I frowned, my mind racing, looking for loopholes. I had to make absolutely sure, because if I got my hopes up and then I was wrong, I didn’t think I’d ever recover.

“Don’t be mad, Kylie. Understand. I didn't want you and your father to suffer along with myself. This wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but it was the right thing. It was better for you to grief now and shortly, than later and forever.” Her tears had fallen, smudging the makeup that failed at making her look healthier. “A few weeks before the accident, I was diagnosed with Alzheimer,” she cried tougher at the mention of the punishing disease. “I never let you or your father know because I wanted to find a way to cure it. But I was unsuccessful at finding any solutions to my problem. As a result of my failure, I faked the accident because I wouldn’t be able to handle knowing that one day I’d lose my mind and the both of you would eternally be wounded with it.”