Tuesday, April 22, 2003
an open ended letterIf you think this was written for you, you're probably right.
Dear Ex,
I've been thinking a lot recently about what went wrong and why and where. It isn't poetic, thoughtful reflection, but rather the typical-heather "what the hell?" diatribe of wishing we had all known ourselves a little bit better at the time. And it all seems a little idiotic, to be thinking of people that are not thinking of me, and remembering things that you have certainly forgotten:
Happy Birthday phone calls,
psychotic breakdowns,
shared twin beds,
the breezeway of Humes Hall,
porch swings and porch swings and porch swings,
our picnic table,
midnight Metro rides,
that one perfect night when it really could have lasted forever even though it felt perfect in the moment and that somehow made it wrong,
sitting in the sweltering city heat wondering if you would actually be on time,
breaking down on the highway and sitting on your bumper, knowing that we didn't need anyone to rescue us,
breaking down on the interstate and thinking that we'd surely die,
and hearing your stories, which are still in my head, which i still retell and occasionally steal replacing your name with mine in all the appropriate places.
I've been rereading the book that I've always wanted to live, only to find out that on my best days I am living the worst chapters.
Things weren't easier when I was with you, just younger and slower. Maybe it was about purity or naivety. Maybe I had more under control than I ever realized.
And so now, that I've apparently stepped into a place where I'm not the one in charge, for the first time ever, I feel like there are gratitudes and apologies owed that no one ever expected me to make. Thanks for letting me think I was the one running the show, and for never running me over with a car when I swore that my only option was to run away. Thanks for never leaving me wondering if the phone would ring. Thanks for always being the first to say the important things, namely "I love you," and "I'm sorry."
Guess I wanted you to know that you're still here with me, in some strange, detatched way that neither of us will ever understand. It is from you that I got my working "measure of a man". And when the next one falls by the wayside, as they always do, maybe we can both sleep a little easier knowing that I knew better because of all that you taught me.
always.
h.
Heather at 8:07 PM
