The Letter I Would Write

Graphic by Sarah McCrimmon

Under regular circumstances, I would have no problem picking out my prettiest envelopes and stationary and enabling my most poetic tongue. Maybe I’ve been inspired or maybe it’s just the earl grey I’m drinking but I feel myself compelled to write you a letter. Using my smoothest pens reserved for only my most eloquent writing, I would let my hand spill out all my innermost thoughts over the paper (and if I’m feeling up for it, replace the dots in my I’s and exclamation points with hearts in the most middle-school-crush manner). I would start it with something along the lines of, “my darling” or, more simply, “my dear” followed by a space that fits your name. My only issue now is that this letter does not have a recipient. All this effort and writing for a letter addressed to no one. Why do I feel so compelled to bring these words onto the page when the author doesn’t know who it’s meant for?

The truth is, I am never this sappy — at least not so publicly. I save my bits of romance for moments of seclusion, not letting the world see the faded hearts on my sleeve. I swoon at lovers in my favorite movies, I sigh at engagement ring commercials and I celebrate anyone who is in love with another. I do all these things and yet writing this now I feel so … anxious. How is it that I can celebrate the love and affection of others and yet hide away my own? Maybe this is just how I was brought up or maybe it’s just how I’ve become but matters of affection have never been my strongest skill. I celebrate the love of others because we all live vicariously in the successes that we wish to have. Yet, this is not to say there is no love in my life. The love I carry is a different brand, not any less important than the love I write about now. It’s love I find in the faces of those closest to me. The love in my siblings when we share our competitive spirit and banter among each other, the love in my best friends when they catch me dancing to our records into the late hours of the night, the love in myself when I realize the pride and power in my speech as it flows out of me. And yet, despite this abundance of love, I find myself wondering why I’ve turned to writing this in the first place? I’ve come writing, waiting for someone to address this letter to, hoping that someone reads this eventually but not knowing who it will be. I have a lot of hope. A lot of faith. Despite everything, I still find myself falling, reaching out and trusting that there will be something to grab onto before my way down. Trusting that this invisible “you” will catch me. 

On the days when I feel my longing is something to mitigate, I find myself asking “who are you?” There is so much time and yet I am eager to find out what kind of person you are. Am I yet to meet you or have we already crossed paths? What is your favorite book? I’m sure I’ll find you in between the lines. Tell me your favorite songs, or better yet, sing them to the moon and I’ll have her whisper the melodies back to me. I’ll look for your favorite colors in art museums all over the world, hoping that I find a masterpiece in the shape of you. I could fill pages upon pages of all the questions I have for you, but something tells me that I’ll know the answers in due time. I hope I am not being too forward, I try not to be so … uncouth about these things. My history has proven to be a rigorous teacher, snapping at me for having any romantic tendencies and hoping to rid me of them at once. Yet, I still find myself writing poetry about people I haven’t even met. I just hope that you are as eager to meet me as I am you. 

Even in writing this letter, I end up locked in another confrontation with my inner cynic. Oh, how she’s grown, learning and studying from my misfortune and doubts. She so loathes me writing — especially if it’s to you. My cynic is angry and afraid. Afraid that my writing will upset you, scare you, but moreover, she is afraid that this letter will have no excited eyes reading it. She hisses in my ear, that I am doomed to a loveless life. Doomed to be looking at others with doting eyes and a rapid, beating heart, yearning for what could be. There are some days when her hisses are whispers and her sharp nails do not sink into my skin. Today, however, she paid me a surprise visit. In fact, I feel her hesitant breathing now as I write this. I reason with her. I tell her that even if there is no one at the other end of this letter, at least whatever love I have stored in me is my own and that it will be there no matter her protests. Despite all the odds, I am ever the optimist. She despises that about me. 

My optimism is not naivety. It is scary, writing something and not knowing who is going to see it. My worries are here with me, warning me that I’m better off keeping this letter to myself, letting these feelings and I return to the earth. But I am not Eve, and how I feel is far from forbidden. These words have been floating around my mind for ages and it’s about time I set them down. I am not so shy about them today. The fear, the worries, the cynic have been ravaging my speech now but I’ve learned something that will make my most tragic demon slither away from me. Regardless of what they whisper to me, I am so full of love. We are fountains of it, endlessly pouring out into each other, connected, giving and taking. Stumbling across all this love, I’ve learned that I am not as lonely as I used to be, not as sad as I used to be. Rather than feel the coldness of isolation creep up on my skin, the warmth of familiarity and understanding has come to keep me company. Of course I still feel anxious, angry, depressed, disappointed — I’m human aren’t I? But the love and the hope I have builds me a net, stopping me from falling back to the point of not having it at all. 

My love is more than enough. I am more than enough. I’ve grown so bored and tired of having my love and being afraid to put it to words. It’s still a bit scary, sharing this now, but it’s all my words and it’s all how I feel. There is too much love trapped in this small frame of mine that I fear keeping it locked away will deprive me of insurmountable joy. I promised myself once that I would never write about love. This promise is rooted in fear, and I am glad that I finally bit the bullet. My words and my writing are my love. They are inseparable, just covered in the stuff. I hope that this love reaches you wherever you are. If my cynic is gone, I think I should call myself a hopeless romantic. Or more simply, I should be called by my name. 

So, now comes the time where I would spray my favorite perfume on the stationary, carefully place some stickers on the envelope and seal it off with a kiss. Maybe this letter will cross oceans to meet you or maybe the mailman will walk it over after making the stop to my house. One way or another, I can’t wait until my writing finds you. I hope you read it and, more importantly, I hope you like it. There will come a point where I will pass you by or you’ll catch my eye along the way and the space in my head holding all of the wonders of you will be replaced by answers and facts about your life. Until then, my love, I will write and wonder, free from fear, and hope that you wonder about me in return. Someday we will lay on the grass, intertwined, counting the stars as they appear over our heads. Knowing that all of the love in the world is here, for us, within us. 

Yours always,
Juana.

P.S. Do you like tangerines? They’re my favorite and perfect for sharing.