The Letter of Illusion

As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks. You remember the language. Segoian, you called it. It was the first and only time you tried to create your own language.

You thought it was a weird idea, as did I. Do you remember? It took days to decide on a first word. "What was that word, that first word?" you wonder. It was so long ago. I think the first word was the hardest, as you said it would be. We created three words, right? A short sentence that escapes memory for the moment. You were so proud though. We were so both proud of ourselves for even attempting to create a language, although hundreds exist, if not more. “How hard could it be?” we wondered. It was hard.

Those were carefree days. Young, growing, and all full of promise. You had the world in your hands. Well, at least part of it. Ok, maybe just a pebble or two from the ground, but you were invincible. There were no mountains you could not climb. No language you could not invent.

Then. Oh boy. It was fast, wasn't it? Before you knew it, you quit your job, found another, and then left to travel across Mongolia before winter.

Did you ever think that would land you swimming naked in the middle of a cold water lake trying to catch a fish with your bare hands? You noticed the observation post that was established after you began your daily dips, didn't you? Most were males , but a female or two often lingered, watching.

Regardless, ever true to yourself, you found your peace. Now, the letter. The memories. "Would it be too much?", you wonder. You smile, broadly, as you break into a laugh. "Yes, it would be too much", you think as the letter hangs across your fingers, "but what a wonderful too much it would be!".

Rushing into the house on the tips of your toes to make tea and read the letter you think, “Oh how thick the envelope is, it must be such a deep letter!”. As tea steeps on the counter accenting the aroma of your warm kitchen, you allow yourself a moment of delusion, thinking how grand it would be to snuggle on the coach in person, thirty years ago, just as you did then.

It was a snowy day in Colorado that cleared early, and left a bright blue sky filled with the glow of gold above and pure white of snow below. Out of the coffee shop he walked, taking a seat at the table on the sidewalk. Talk dark and handsome he was, not. But he laughed with ease and shared smiles with strangers. When he turned to leave, he noticed your style. Curious, he asked, “Excuse me. May I, may I ask where you are from?”

Why you told him New Jersey, nobody will understand. Nerves you say. But you have never even been to Jersey! Oh how you surprise me sometimes. But he laughed. He knew. “Hmm. New Jersey, Australia, yes?” Oh how you laughed. 

The laughter turned into drinks, dinner and dancing. You shared your love of hiking, biking, and kitchen sink handles. Never have you met someone with a love of kitchen sink handles like you have. The way they shine in the morning sun gleaming through the open window bonded the two of you to each other like nothing you have ever experienced. You even built that addition to the house just to add sinks. Was it three, or four? I know the triple sink in the master bathroom, with tiger sink knobs was among your prized possessions. That and the three headed tiger guarding your driveway. Why three heads anyway?

When he left for Japan it was so bittersweet. Hoping to find the perfect handmade soap bowl in the shape of your soap bars left him filled with anticipation and hope. Yet you missed him so. They said it was an illusion anyway. They said it was not possible to be in love with him. How wrong you thought they were.

The knock at the door startled you once again just as you nestle into the couch to read the letter. You sprang up with a great knowing – you know without reading the letter that it was only to tell you of his arrival, today. It must be, the letter, the knock. He must be here!

The nurse slid through the partially open door, “Joanne. Joanne”, you hear as she comes closer.

There is no couch. There is no letter. She handed you a cup, asking that you take these pills because they will help. You know they do. But they also hurt. You realize, again, that he never was. There was no dancing. There were no drinks. And tiger sink knobs? You know that cannot be real. You prefer alligator knobs.

Now that you understand, you have learned to enjoy your breaks. “Psychotic”, some might say. Few would understand that their reality, although more stable, is no different than yours. Created, as it is, through thoughts, experiences, mental connections, we all carry our “selves” throughout our life, however many selves we may have.

For a few minutes, he was real. You drank, dined, and danced the night way. You smiled with joy, and teared at the memories, as false as they were. You lived your dream.

Tell me my dear, is this any less real then the illusion we all live? How many of us, afraid of what we do not know, back away from life? How many of us seek to control to retain our illusion?

Well, we have talked the afternoon away again. I must go now, to feed the dogs. They won’t tolerate me being a minute late of course. Did I tell you what they do? When route 46 traffic is heavy and I am late, they drag that chair, you remember the red chair with the white table, and well they drag that to the living room and start eating! I must run now, before they overdose on fiber.

And Morgan, your nurse, wishes for you to rest now.  I so enjoyed the afternoon. Your stories are ever so…interesting. You look well these days. I think being in the park every day is adding color to your skin.  I will see you tomorrow. Rest well.