Sunday, November 10, 2013

A wrote to you tonight that I was sedentary in thought. Of course, what I wanted to say was that I want to come running back into the cradle of your words. Earlier, in class, my professor read a letter which had been found underneath a floorboard of a house during a renovation. It was dated 1901. The letter, of course, was beautifully written- the dance of the ink on the page formed words not needing to be straightened by lined paper. His [the writer's] language was proper and deep feeling. Its syntax, rich. The class commented that we, the collective USA, don't send letters like that anymore. And I smiled to myself, knowing that I had received letters so eloquently written they would bring you to tears while you were eating your morning cereal. And that I had daily received such letters for years during our love. On cards, in emails, scrawled on post-its in your distinct ALL CAPS scratch.

And then as quickly as I remembered this, I also recalled that during my reanimation into a new lover, I buried all your letters and deleted all the electronic ones for fear of regret. Your words now mingle with the dust of the earth and with the pages of my lover's past loves. How desperately I want to read those words again. They stay like perfect diamonds in my memory, and the only thing that brings me joy is to know that perhaps one day, someone will find them and know that love letters like that existed in the 21st century. And that they were our letters during the brief time we stayed locked into each other. I have kept one letter. You wrote it to me on my 25th birthday after we split. I take it out when I'm feeling strong and swim on those words. And then always there are tears. Sometimes a few, and other times like rivers flowing over m face and soaking my collar bones.

I want to master the stories. I want to be a letter hunter and a word preserver. 

No comments: