runner up in heather hubler's 'write me a letter' challenge
64/787/14 s.d. (standard dating)
We don't write letters as we used to, people, I mean. There is something about it that feels tragically romantic, words meant for someone who may never read them. Still, I can't help but write them for you, hopelessly hopeful that they will find you someday, or, even better, that I will get to tell you of my adventures in person. They say that you don't know how much you love someone until they are gone, but I don't think that it is possible to love you more, yet still, you are gone.
I have much to tell you, because I have realized in your absence that nothing is real to me until I have said it to you, and beyond these words, there is no saying anything. I suppose I am trying to make this world without you real, to remember when I wake that you will not wake beside me.
You are calling me a pessimist, Lover, I can hear it.
Well, to that I have only this to say: In a conversation of which I have long forgotten the details, someone gave me this simple comment: ‘That’s kind of sad.’
I didn't know what to say then, it had never occurred to me before, and not until the conversation was long over did I gather my incoherent thoughts and realize my response.
Sometimes things are.
Sometimes things are sad.
But I think that ignoring the sad things is to discount their cause, and so I will let myself miss you, I will be sad, because you are worth missing.
Is that so pessimistic?
I would like to think that I'd have left you speechless with this argument, but maybe I am wrong; you surprise me; sometimes I have no idea what you will say, and even when I do, the workings of your mind leave me speechless.
I took a job as soon as I could after you left. I thought it might distract me, but I never expected it to work. They call themselves the Daedalus Foundation and they pay well enough that I am almost afraid to question them.
They wish to send me to the Milky Way galaxy, the third quadrant, but they have been vague in revealing what it is they are looking for. They only speak of a map that must be followed and a treasure that must be found, and you know I can never resist a treasure hunt.
For now I remain in the city, but it is not the same without you. I walk past the car port in the South Business District, and remember us on that very first night, exploring away while the car charged only to find out the next morning that you had plugged into the only port in the entire lot that was out of order. You were so flustered and you kept apologizing, but I think we can agree that the day it took to recharge was not a day wasted.
I write to you from the middle of the night; it is around this time that I miss you the most. I never realized how lucky I was. After so long, I will have to relearn how to sleep alone, and sometimes I think that is the worst part.
Still, I like to think that each day is one closer to being with you again, and the thought keeps me warm on the coldest nights.