Dear X.,
So I took my time, which isn’t to say that I ever gave it away. You have to understand how much I hate the thought of that. But I gathered it against my bones, and there we were, flattening this out into some derivative universe toward which I can fall with my arms outstretched.
There’s a subtler meaning there. But now I’m thinking of forgivable heights, and time like a series of knots on somebody else’s bracelet, somebody else’s wrist.
Dear X.,
Listen—it’s not transactional: You give me the color orange, and some days, I give you nothing at all. I give you the corrugated metal of this body leftover from the day or the worst possible choice of a security question of the three you listed just because I think it’s the funniest. I give you the slap in the face that preempted our friendship, or maybe I make you tea.
Dear X.,
Thinking of the soft pine needles yesterday, and today the frozen baths. Like a bucket spilling and spilling over the rocks, and the others barefoot in the back seat.
Thinking too of green wood, which is young wood that can bend, that can snap back, and thinking of how green is operating here: twice, or with two chances, if you’re the sort of person who allows that sort of thing.
Dear X.,
They ran out of free samples at the store yesterday, but that’s the price you pay for calling something fictitious.
I need your opinion on something—write me back please.
Dear X.,
Today I’ve been thinking about that Tony Hoagland poem with the excess blossoming, a profusion near profanity. I looked it up: “A Color of the Sky.” Funny because the titular line used to be the one stuck in my head, but today while walking through the green with you I could only think of the ending, the bit about nature making more beauty and throwing it away; making more again.
Dear X.,
Grand notions in ample time; things that stretch to fill their medium. Including: any story of yours on the seven minute walk to dinner.
Dear X.,
The funny thing about epistolarity is that it creates a separation between when something is spoken and when it is heard. The funny thing about honesty is that it makes this gap look awfully comforting. You’ll see what I mean.
There are things that are easy and there are things I should say to your face.
Dear X.,
You’ve asked me to write about home, so I’ll tell you that there were days that glinted like cold metal, and those when my hands grew calloused from the weighing of broken things. But there were also the birds flying south past the steeple. There were the splitting faces. It wasn’t that long ago, remember? We were both there. You were standing in the crooked field, and I was under your skin.
Dear X.,
Yes, I was afraid. “For crying out loud”—you always liked that phrase.
Dear X.,
You start at the source of the bleeding. That’s what I would tell you and S. would tell you and probably someone else whose name here would be signified with the first initial only.
That’s the answer clear as day. I don’t remember the question. S. thinks it had something to do with history.
Dear X.,
Now hang on just a second—I might be wrong about that part, might have been wrong this whole time. Which would be incredibly good news, I think. It cracks me open to think about the possibility that you felt some other way. But I think I heard it in your voice yesterday morning, when we were standing by the water.
Dear X.,
A couple months ago, on a day she didn’t know was difficult, a friend told me she’s not very religious at all but still writes “G-d” every time. Some names you shouldn’t erase.
Call that conviction or call it a security deposit—regardless, it’s something I can get behind.
Dear X.,
Just so you know, I think I could pass a lot of time listening to the same sounds with you.
Dear X.,
Thinking about that damn fish, the beta, that Nick wanted to name after Grandpa. I don’t think we told human Ted when the fish died. It felt like a bad omen. Fish Ted’s last afternoon was one of the most distinctive times I can picture us all gathered in one room. It was almost Christmas. We had just gotten him a new tank. I’m not sure what you ended up doing with it.
When human Ted died, I found out in the morning before school, back in Minnesota standing next to the kitchen counter. It was probably 7:30 or so. You had just hung up the phone.
The last time I’d seen him, I was crying and you were not. You took a minute to talk to him before you left the hospital room, but when you left you were not crying.
Dear X.,
The times I wanted to tell you most were the times I wanted most for you to see that I wasn’t broken, that you aren’t a person who breaks things.
Dear X.,
The sun today—the sun was here! All that sun, and something new on the breeze. Thinking about how spring used to be my least favorite season. But all that rain and all that meltage are necessary to wash things away. All that washing.
Dear X.,
When I’m writing, I’m making a list of places I’ve been. Fuck an action verb, I’m talking real perlocution. I’m building the walls, see. I’m laying the foundation. You can come on in whenever you like.
When I’m writing, I’m making lists upon lists. I’m living through the day. There’s the morning, crashing in with all those shock waves. The break of dawn, the break of a dish; the one the waiter dropped onto the pavement in Brooklyn. The one I dropped in the kitchen standing on little feet, when I first was told it’s easier to sweep up the dirt after it dries.
I get in a car. I get on a bus. I step out of the doorframe. I’d like to believe I’m going to meet you somewhere.
Dear X.,
My entire day changed at the lunch hour today, sitting in a booth across from someone I love and arguing about what belongs in a smoothie.
Dear X.,
Sleeping on your shoulder with the light flickering in. Filtering in. Sleeping somewhere sunny, somewhere warm. And light filtering through the window. Light falling off the tops of the buildings, tumbling into the street, as we weave through fruit vendors and chase down the parade. And me, left wondering how many frames per second we were allowed. If someone, somewhere, was breaking the rules for us.
On the bus, summer is coming and that is good because I’d like to wake up, even knowing that I’ll wake up older; knowing that this is a price I’m willing to pay, that maybe this isn’t a price at all.
Dear X.,
We listed our favorite oxymorons, but there comes a point when you need a better rhetorical device. Or something stronger. If you give me a second, I can explain.
Dear X.,
Here’s a thought experiment for you and me:
What would it be if the walls were made of fabric? Probably a whole lot of fluttering, but I’m choosing not to believe in cardiology. Not curtains, but the daffodils this morning: pale soaked tissue, defining where the room starts and ends.
Then we’d have to make a list of things we could or couldn’t set on the table. We’ve had lists like that before. We called them house rules, and I’ll be damned if the look on your face wasn’t at least somewhat universalizing.
Dear X.,
This is a story about abundance. Layers and layers and layers down, slicing into the snow. I’m thinking about the tree again, X.; the flowers it keeps pulling from its sleeves.
As for memories, I don’t need them all, but let’s not shut down the tracks. I think death without aging would be like counting cards. Something I’d like to see.
Dear X.,
I’m walking down a sidewalk after this morning’s rain and quite enjoying it. I’m crossing the street.
I suppose I just wanted you to know.
Dear X.,
One Wednesday, my history professor was talking about crises and wars and things that happen over and over again. She paused to say, If there is something exceptional, this is what is exceptional. How nice it would be for someone to always tell you these things.
If there is something worth saving, this is what is worth saving.
If there is something worth doing, this is what is worth doing.
If there is somewhere everything floats, no matter its weight, you’ll go there. I’m sure of it.
I’ll walk myself over and find you.
Dear X.,
One night, the rain: Water running from the gutter, drops colliding with the sidewalk. These are words, yes. You heard them too. But still I was thinking about protection.
Dear X.,
And you can have the whole thing, by the way. Just ask.
Sole Magazine