A Love Letter Unsent IV
Note: This is the fourth part of a series of love letters I wrote to my wife so many years ago. I'm posting it here for documentation and for your reading pleasure. Sleep Warm.
You Ask About Me? (A Love Letter Unsent IV)
“The writer has to look for the river, and if he finds it frozen over, he has to drill a hole in the ice. He must have a good deal of patience, weather the cold and the adverse criticism, stand up to ridicule, look for the deep water, cast the proper hook, and after all that work, he pulls out a tiny little fish. So he must fish again, facing the cold, the water, the critic, eventually landing a bigger fish, and another and another…” - Pablo NerudaMy letter came back… unread, unopened. I held it a moment thinking your small hands had held it too. Then I sat down quietly and decided to write you again. It’s August here and “the” balot vendor go past the house every night. Young men with beers across the road anticipate his return every day, lining up the streets waiting, like that time when Christ entered Jerusalem on the very first Palm Sunday. This afternoon at the market I saw a sunburned girl very much like you, I nearly asked her name.
It says in the paper that a storm comes tonight and so, I’ve covered the plants and set the teapot to boiling. And now, I let our old dog sleep inside. Otherwise, the weather is the same. There is an orange moon over the hazel hills; there will be sleepy birds and dancing crickets singing, and grumpy frogs by midnight. You must come home.
You ask about me? How am I? I knew sunrises and sunsets, and the long dance of your favorite butterflies in the garden, but not your beautiful face. And once, along some forgotten river, I coached a crippled sparrow back to health. How content I was to walk naked footed by myself along the riverbank, marveling at the green melons and kites above green trees, and trapped slow-witted bees in tall flowers. And oh, the secret place up the hill where we first kissed, that tree where I engraved “I love you”, is still there.
Yes, I was, and am alone. I miss you and I don’t like it. Being alone, that is. For the country boy in me, “alone” had been synonymous with “without you.” With growing frequency I now plan nightly outings in the morning, await them through the day, and with approaching darkness work myself into a boredom that a battle line of pears and apples with salt could not penetrate. I am never sure what I miss about you. It’s staying home, it’s this bed, it’s this room, it’s this house, it’s this town, I’ve avoided disappointments that might have chipped away what’s left of my confidence.
I never liked being alone, but I like it better than being with “just somebody.” I want you. You’re all I want. The need to touch you can be so great at times that it’s as close to madness as I ever hope to come. The brushing of two minds, hearts, or hands, or bodies together. Your eyes focused on me are the every sunrise and sunset that I needed.
Nights are the best for me these days. When I could go be by myself, promise myself that if you ever come home, I’ll make you stay. Trust me. I don’t do anything that in some way doesn’t involve you.
You ask about me? I am all right. Last night, out along the river, past the wild grass and bushes, past the boathouse, past the colony of pigeons, I walked again, and before August rain had died you were there.
You ask about me? I am all right. I repeat this to myself wishing you could hear them. Any poet worth his words will tell you the moon on the river is especially nice at midnight. That’s a comfort not to be taken lightly, considering myself is all I have.
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