The Letter

Issac,

The field was white that spring, I remember it well. It was my favorite thing about that old house, the field that ran on forever in the distance. I used to love to run in it, the sun warm on my cheeks. But that one year sun just never seemed to come. I had never seen anything like it the winter just kept raging on, and just when you expected to wake up and find the fields ready for harvest that beautiful golden amber, the white covered it again. 

The winter coats had been packed away on one of the colds' false leaves. We stored them up in closets for next year. My Father nearly dropped the box on his head as he stood on that unstable stool, the tip of tippy toes as he reached to bring it down. He could have just gotten a taller chair but you know him. It isn’t his way. You’re like him in that respect Issac, that you just can’t let things go even if the solutions are right in front of you. My father always implemented it in me that just because something is the easy way doesn’t mean it's the right way. He had bundled me up in that coat and smiled. I remember that he watched until I got onto the bus and that as I looked back from the back seat where I liked to hide, he was still watching. 

It was one of those few moments where I remember feeling like my Father was really an important part of my life. With work, he always listened or watched me, but never both at the same time. Rarely did that ever happen. 

You walked me to my car at the end of the night though, back when I first started working at the theater. I remember looking back in the rear-view mirror and you were still standing there, hands in your pockets in your way, eyes watching me. 

It seems true that whenever I look back you are there.

Great authors don’t just write stories, they live them. I’m not one to plan as you know, to investigate and analyze isn’t easy for me. In my mind stories as well as life should be like winding roads, flowers planted at each side. You don’t know how long the dirt path winds on, you only know that each moment must be spent in the essence of assuring that each framed instant is immortalized in thought. The smell of roses on your tongue forever, or something like that. Words are funny things, they don’t always mean the right things but they sound good together, like some unspoken melody pieced through mystical ideas of no relevance whatsoever. No matter how nonsensical sometimes, two things just work. How wonderful to switch a sense, to describe so vividly you can live through more than just day by day- you can create worlds of words. 

Mariah looks so much like my Mom some days, her hair pulled up with that one black scrunchie she loves so much. It’s worn and stretched and one day it might snap. But as much as I warn her she insists on wearing it.  

Why do you think we do that Josh? Wear things we love till they break? 

Maybe you’ll never read this, maybe I’ll never get up the courage to give it to you. 

It's funny how writing lets everything out, sets it clear. How you can have some banging against your skull, putting you in misery all day, and the moment your fingers hit the keyboard it's all set free. No spell check, no jobs, no work, just life. 

There are small moments we go to grasp, we try to reach them and yet they find themselves running away from us. Live life like it's your last day breathing Josh no matter what happens. No matter what hurts.  It’s like you say, you never appreciate two nostrils till one is clogged up sick. 

I’ll admit to you though I'd never tell it to Mariah. Though a sister sometimes she seems worlds apart. Those days I talk or laugh so much, those days you say are your favorites- they’re days I feel like I'm just fighting to prove something to people. Those aren’t the people to be around. I should be around people who make me quiet because they fascinate me. From the moment I met you, you fascinated me.

People like that, their thoughts are all locked away under the pretense of first acquaintance. Once the match is lit with someone scarce and shallow, it goes out quickly. It takes time to burn down a candle that is slowly made with great attention. True friends can fall in love, but only ones who haven’t seen inner workings, ones who have gotten over that first thrill and really looked hard at the facts. 

The fact is, I think you feel a lot Issac and I think that scares you. Maybe it’s because you think things are somehow destined to go wrong. But life isn’t circuit boards and command lines, you get out what you put in, you live how you choose. 

I’m sorry we didn't drink coffee on my first day of work. I'm sorry that I didn’t ditch my friends and come and talk with you. I have a lot of regrets when it comes to us. 

Basically, all of this isn’t just some huge pity party, I apologize if it’s coming off that way but I’m just saying I’ve realized something recently. I know I tell you I care and that I’m here but that isn’t enough for you to believe it and I know that. 

I know you. 

I got you this bag, I hope you enjoy it, I measured your laptop for it and it should fit okay, I hope. That way a piece of me will remind you to do more than just think when your writing those lines of code. Maybe it'll remind you to live a little, take a risk. I’ll be waiting at the coffee house for you, the same seat as always. Watching the windows and twiddling that pen between my fingers till you show up and shun the boredom and mundanity of life away with a since glance. 

Thanks, Issac, for everything. I feel the sun has come at last.

Sincerely, 

Mel