Dear Madre,
This letter is years overdue, decades in fact.
It was 1999 and a wet winter day in the capital city of Argentina. I was on a graduation trip with my teenage sons. You were sitting on the dirty concrete steps at the corner of a building in downtown Buenos Aires, your whimpering baby held tight to your chest. The boys and I were running late, on our way to somewhere, not all that important. You reached out, your hand clutching a tattered basket with a few coins in it. My sons moved quickly ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up.
I saw you. Clearly. Then I hurried past. Yet at that moment we locked eyes. I was just another tourist. You were just another beggar. That, however, was a lie. And it is that lie I have lived with all the years since.
I was married at the time to a wealthy man. It was his money that paid for our trip, his money that paid for everything. For my lifestyle, for the home my children lived in, for my soul. I was a woman caught up in my own selfish agenda, my thoughts and actions revolving around what next adventure my husband’s money was bringing us.
I did not see you that day as a person. A woman. A mother. And if time could have stood still for just a moment, maybe I could have seen how much we had in common. Our shame at having to rely on another for survival. But instead, I pushed your anguish aside and ran to somewhere that didn’t matter.
Yet it is your face I have not been able to remove from my mind all these years. Your face and that one moment we could have met, if only for an instant. That moment, the change I now want to tell you about. What no apology could ever do, atone for the depth of my selfishness that day.
I began to give things away. Possessions, money, compliments and kindnesses. Favors and little acts of good that no one saw.
I left the wealthy man and gave away much I received in the divorce. Once, at an ice cream stand a young girl said she liked my shoes, so I gave them to her. Several times I encountered someone in need of gas to get to a destination far away, so I bought them a full tank although my own was nearly empty. I gifted handcrafted items I made to thank people or just to let them know they were thought of.
I went back to school and got a graduate degree in Counseling, then worked in a funeral home helping the bereaved for many years. I authored and published a book on grief and loss to continue helping others.
I still offer my time and my talents to those who need them. I give strangers compliments every chance I have. I even began caring more for myself. Whenever I see an opportunity, no matter if it costs me something I need for myself or I am taken advantage of, I give.
I had a debt to pay you Madre, at least that was what I thought in the beginning. But gradually, over time, I became a different person. A generous person. I didn’t have to think about it, or plan for it, the act became natural, straight from my heart. I stopped thinking of you, of that day in the winter of 1999. Until now. When I decided to write you this letter to tell you about the changes you brought into my life.
So today the debt I owe you, my dear Madre, is one of gratitude. Gratitude for illuminating the changes in me. For creating a better person than the one I was on that day in 1999. A person who only saw a beggar among the many on the street.
I did not make a difference in your life that day, but you made a difference in all my days since then.
Warmest regards,
Karen