I want a letter. Not just any letter will do. No electric bill, charitable society, or credit card application. It should be creamed colored and smooth. Soft, purposeful script with my address in black ink. The lining a burst of color - crimson, cobalt or jade – much like the sender. Peaceful cover – passionate underneath. The kind of letter that will find me rereading it on the front steps two years from now with a glass of Cycles Gladiator. It has been a long time since I have had a letter of any kind.
I have a few in a cardboard box sitting in a closet at my parents house. Most written on graphing paper with a carpenter pencil. Sawdust should have fallen out when I opened them. They were well phrased and at points longingly cryptic. Mostly they gave nothing but snapshots and self-absorption. It wasn’t all his fault. I let him go on and he was only twenty. I am sure he is different at twenty-seven.
I just want truth now with a little soft-lighting. Not too much forethought and little inhibition. No fear that what you are telling me will hurt or that it might give me power. This never ending obsession with protection is a little old. I don’t want to damage – I want to hear how the grocery store in a coast town made you think of me. A constant chess game called to a halt.
I would like sand to fall from my letter. Some beach I have never been to. Maybe a leaf or a seed. Something I can try and grow. At least the words will sprout or unlike the plants in my life – not die.
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