dear,
i’d be so very honored if you’d accompany me to the norton simon museum at a moment of your choosing. i do not wish to impose myself into your schedule, for i imagine it must be a busy one, but if you could spare a few hours, i would be most grateful.
if i may be honest, i have visited this museum more times than i can recall, which is both a testament to how numerous the visits are, and how bad my memory is. i could go alone, as i often have, but there is a certain errand there i’d like us both to attend to. i must introduce you to saint cecilia, oil on canvas, who resides in the museum’s permanent collection. she’s heard much about you, since i tell her of you every time i visit her, and is eager to make your acquaintance.
i was considering having lunch in pasadena after our visit, if you’d be interested in such a thing. your input on the matter would be appreciated, but if you are unfamiliar with the area’s offerings, i can make a few suggestions.
yours
--
dear,
you’re on my mind again, as i sit upon the porch and chase the cars down the street with my eyes. something about the way which the day’s warmth has clung to the evening air, perhaps. it feels like i’m in phoenix again, sitting outside my apartment in an office chair, watching the blanketing of storm clouds undulate with the increasing desert wind. you wouldn’t have recognized me then, for i was very different than i am now.
i begin to wonder if you’d recognize me now, when at last one day we meet. shall i be a world different by that time, or has the turbulence of the youthful self finally matured into a soft and comfortable being? is it a maturing, or is it a solidifying? we often speak of those who are older as being “set in their ways”, like immovable objects, but we forget that they too we once unstoppable forces. at what point did they turn to stone? does it happen all at once, or is it so gradual you are unaware? do you know when it’s too late? if it happens to me, don’t tell me. i should rather be ignorant of the matter. anything else would make me too sad.
will you become marble too? will it happen for each of us at the same time, or will one of us excel? perhaps, if we plan it right, we can be beautifully frozen together, like a statue of two figures dancing. i should like for us to be remembered that way, mid-stride in a song only we can hear. we should probably practice our dancing, lest we freeze as i accidentally step on your feet.
yours
--
dear,
i was watching a documentary, and they uncovered the long-dead remains of some ancient couple, embracing each other softly in the dirt. i was considering how lovely it would be for the anthropologists of the future to uncover our bones in a similar fashion, but i’ll need to consult with you as to where exactly you’d like our huddled remains to lay down. it cannot be in a place too secluded or significant, like the redwoods, because perhaps they would never uncover us. however, it also can’t be on private property, for who would agree to such a thing? i imagine this rules out nearly every botanical garden, which would have been my first choice.
thoughts?
yours
--
dear,
tonight, i am missing you dearly. it is true that i miss you quite often, in a variety of ways. sometimes, i miss you like child misses summer, like you’re a swimming pool that i’m going to cannonball into upon first sight. sometimes, i miss you like one misses a phone call; you cross my consciousness for a fleeting moment, but i haven’t the time to answer so i will defer my affections for a more convenient hour. sometimes, i miss you like lovers miss each other, parted at morning between commutes and coffee, eager to be reunited over supper with a day to recount. oh, the stories i’ll tell you, you wouldn’t believe the days i’ve had.
tonight, it is none of those. i miss you like lovers miss each other, parted by death; one newly confined to a world beyond this one, reaching back towards the living in desperation, the other confined to a world less beautiful than it had ever been, reaching back towards the memory of a love they can never hold again. i miss you like you’re already gone. or perhaps it is i who is gone. to say i feel low would be an understatement, but six feet might be an exaggeration. still, i’m cold and alone, and i want something that feels impossible. the only consolation that i have is a grim one; that one day we’ll both be on the same side, and if we still have fingers, they can intertwine and never part again.
promise me that in our time together, your absences will be short. i’ve spent so long missing you, i should never be made to miss you again. i have so much to share with you. if you’re away, i’d have to resort to writing you letters. and who would do such a silly thing?
yours
--
dear,
i don’t want you to think i’m cross with you, but i’ve noticed that despite the care i put into making dinner, you have not once eaten it. granted, i have no idea what kind of food you like, but that is no fault of mine at present. i always save the last slice of pot pie for you, just in case you arrive unannounced. that last slice is the one i inevitably eat in the middle of the night, curled up in my chair watching nostalgic children’s television programs. it never goes to waste.
i’m so accustomed to eating the last slice of pie, that i suppose i’ll have to have an additional “last slice” for you. and in fact, it will likely have to be two additional “last slices”; one for your dinner, and one to eat with me as i eat the last slice at midnight while watching bill nye the science guy.
yours
--
dear,
what am i suppose to do with all the love i have for you? there’s no possible way to contain it, and it’s getting rather unmanageable. in fact, i’d say it’s taking up quite a bit of space in my life. if i were to fly on an airplane, the airline would make me buy a second seat for my love. if i were to put it into a suitcase, it would surpass the weight restrictions. it’s not going to fit in a train, or on a bus, or in my car. i’ll be forced to walk everywhere i go, carrying my love over my shoulder. perhaps, i can outfit my love with a series of roller skates, and then i could drag my love behind me on a rope. upon further examination of that concept, i think perhaps i have accidentally tried to reinvent a wagon. i’ll put my love in a wagon.
yours
--
dear,
i heard a song on the radio today that reminded me of you. remind me to ask you if you like that song.
yours
--
dear,
it’s 10:49pm on thursday, and i am curious what exactly you’re doing. are you brushing your teeth? are you cleaning the dishes? are you playing a game on your phone as you try without success to fall asleep? are you writing me a letter? what a strange coincident that would be!
i know you’re out there, somewhere in the dark. i also know it doesn’t really matter what you’re doing. and yet that thought nags at me periodically. when i’m making lunch, i wonder what you’re doing. when i’m folding laundry, i wonder what you’re doing. when i’m sitting across the table from someone, i wonder what you’re doing. are you, at that precise moment, sitting across the the table from me? or are you sitting cross-legged on your sofa watching a game show and answering the questions out loud? when i say “do you have any siblings?”, are you simultaneously saying “what is a subduction zone?”
have we ever looked at the moon at the same time? have we ever stood in the exact same place months apart? do we both have photographs of ourselves as children posing with the same amusement park mascots? have we both thoroughly considered how unsettling amusement park mascots are? have we both ever listened to the car radio at the same time, on the same station, and sung along to the same song?
some questions will never be answered, and i’m trying to be okay with that.
yours
--
dear,
i shall write no more letters until i receive your reply, though this may doom me to never write to you again. i may live the rest of my life with my ear to the wind, listening for the rustling of your pages or the low drone of your pen. you’ll occupy my time even in your absence, every minute, but i’ll gladly give you all of my hours. they've always been yours, or perhaps, "ours". this joke would be much easier to convey in spoken word than in a letter, and if told in-person, i would get the added benefit of hearing your perfect laugh for the very first time.
yours