Dear X—,
Do you remember the conversation we had on the day your book was published? You didn't want to be with your agent and so tugged at my arm and we slid away into the warm August air. We sat by the river as the sun was setting over the western hills and I told you of the music that was caught in my ear. You laughed at what I said—not a bad laugh but a good laugh that thrilled my mind and my heart and we remained there in the slow silence, watching the birds that visited the river’s trees. The willows, you said, are not trees but the heads of angels that dance upon Earth’s thin crust. I smiled, letting my mind wander to those shores that only your imagination could conjure as the moon slid slowly between the stars. There was nothing that could touch us that night—not the air or the wind or the flies, or all the suns that would burn eternal throughout the sky. I wanted it to be forever. I wanted nothing more than to remain like that, imagining (trying desperately to see it how you would) that there was a bubble—one of purest translucent film—surrounding our bodies as we sat upon the grassy bank. I willed it never to pop, to never break its precious membrane, its opalescent curve with its faint glimmer of pearl. And though I did not speak, I knew if I’d asked you would have said that yes, it would pop, that in time all things break and return to what was or was not, and you would have said that it was OK, that being within that bubble even once was more than many would know. You would have said that, because that was how you knew the world, sensing beauty in all that you saw. And so I find myself wishing I could go back, to speak as we sat there beside the water’s edge and to ask all the questions that on that evening I could not, and that now, here after so much time, I wish too that I could ask whether you remember that night and all the years we did not have, even though I can’t and it’s not possible and that what remains are just memories, whatever such things may be.
Whilst melancholy and fictional, this piece has its grounding in how I feel at the start of this year. I commence my writing feeling moved and inspired by the words I read, both in books and here online by many authors, my mind pulled and swayed into a place of imagination and emotion. I want to dedicate this piece to , whose exploration of style and prose and story (particularly his “Unsent Letters” series) continue to bring warmth and sustenance to the ink that flows through my heart.
Beautiful, Nathan. Just beautiful! Every single word, and every single space between the words, in this letter feels so precious that I imagine them, too, all encased in a bubble of translucent film (this imagery will stay with me forever). If this was an experiment, I sincerely hope it becomes a routine, as it turned out excellent! And I’m truly honored to be the recipient of your dedication. Such a noble gesture -- I have no words. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!
That last sentence 💜