Dear you,
I hope you don’t think its weird that I’m writing. I know, it seems a bit formal, we’ve known each other for so long…
But time can be a barrier.
You understand that it can be hard for me to say certain things to you when habits have been established like rules and insidiously? I don’t know when, didn’t notice and so couldn’t object. Would I have objected anyway?
The thing is, I’ve been feeling a bit
Hmm
Grey
And slow
These days
Why? Can’t quite say
Where? Well, my ankles have been feeling a little strained. And I have a blister or two on my right foot. Arthritis on bad days. Humid days. Cold days. Everyday?
What? It’s true, I’m digressing. So what I really mean to say is…
How? Floating, except that has connotations of dream and ethereal. Drifting, like a cigarette butt in the sea, dirty, rejected,
aimless,
searching some sort of destiny that was never in the plans.
You see what I mean? If I believed in God, I would say he forgot me. He made you, and me, but then he forgot all about me, and it became just you.
What I want to say is a lot like “you’re selfish” but not exactly. I don’t want to start this finger-pointing, it always comes from me. But you don’t let me sing when sometimes, randomly, a melody just wants to burst out. And you know I want to, but it embarrasses you so you stand your ground, keep me silent, and wait for it to pass. It passes quickly now I’ll have you know. Happy?
I know you’re not.
No, you’re not.
Well because I’m not, you can’t be either.
Who’s the selfish one eh?
The singing, I’ll let it pass. Fine, if I thought about it rationally I would realize that it might be difficult for you if I burst out in song in the cinema. It’s not the first time you’ve stopped me from having fun though. And I know it won’t be the last.
What is it really about then?
Not the dishes that you made me wash
Nor sleeping early when I wanted to be out
That was all a long time ago anyway, I’m pretty ok with your geriatric lifestyle now
What is it really about then?
Can you guess?
it’s him.
yes, i will talk about that if i want to and i do want to.
i had never and still have never had that sort of obsessive compulsive joy since, in those 70 years since. it's time that asshole that allows retrospective regrets. i was furious then, but it didn’t last that long. it's time that tells you twenty years later paf! that wasn’t a small mistake. like missing punctuation in an essay. it's paf! you had the golden fucking fleece around your shoulders and jason, you thought it was from gap.
you see what i mean?
just because you thought he was ugly. lucky one of us can appreciate inner beauty. he was so kind, i didn’t realize how important kindness was until the years passed and there was less and less of it.
and your other argument? he was too short? he was eight fucking years old ! he would have grown. obviously. he was very helpful. can’t say the same thing about the three husbands you finally chose and then discarded, one after another. that’s a little like having a pet, and then buying a new pet straight away when the first one dies and then giving it the same name. control-freak Fido, alcoholic Fido, boring Fido. beautiful, kind, helpful danny.
it seems that even rancor is tired with the years. i’m going to finish up since it’s almost bedtime. just to tell you i resent you and that i can make better decisions than you sometimes, and you should let me choose too sometimes. and you do, sometimes. it wouldn’t be fair to say that i never get a say. but more often. you’d be happier too – you know you regret it when you don’t listen to what i say and what i want. you know you want to say and want the same things as i do, i just realize it several hours (or years) earlier. just keep that in mind, we don’t have much time left to be in disaccord; the years keep drifting by; aimless and searching.
good night and love you always,
me
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