Dear Giles

I am writing you from a place you once lived, and seemed to really dislike. You’re gone, and I wonder if now you can see how much good we had here? Things are fine where I am; maybe better than you remember. I found that little bit of courage you swore I must have had, and I’ve been playing with it ever since.

The crabapple tree we used to eat off, where that Russian kid got beat up by his dad, that’s still here. It feels kind of out of place to me, but there it is on the side of the park without the fence. Still tall and fat and full of fruit as ever. Not everything blooms though.

Many people you used to know are no longer with us. There were the usual explanations: accidents, suicide, wrong attitudes at the wrong time, you know – everyone dies to soon. This may surprise you, but no, we have not carried that pain from year to year; we are stronger than you remember us.

Still, many of the people you loved are still as strong and vibrant as ever – and all awaiting your return. Like the way you hold onto the arms of your chair as your the tires beneath your plane skid to a stop on asphalt. Waiting. Not with hope or with fear, just waiting.

If nothing else, I hope life is easier for you where you live now, or that you learned how to live in the world you’re in – that you’ve figured out ignoring is not the same as forgetting.

I may or may not write you again. But don’t neglect to let someone know before you make your next trip back.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 6th, 2009 at 11:54 PM and is filed under poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.